


High-Society

by pilotisms



Series: Simpler Said Aloud [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Deserves Love, Companion Piece, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Essentially the follow up to Simpler Said Aloud, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Marriage & Kids & a HAND-BUILT CABIN IN THE NORTH, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Slow Burn, Turner as a placeholder surname, drabbles?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 46,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Following the events of my previous fic, Simpler Said Aloud.Everyone knows, from here to Saint Denis, that you and Arthur Morgan mix like oil and water. To say it’s as simple as that is the greatest understatement of the century though, because this feuding of personalities isn’t just like oil and water, it’s like gasoline and open flame – it’s explosive and, a bit like arson, isn’t something you want to stand too close to.But, things change.





	1. Gasoline + Open Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a collection of all the Miss Turner/Arthur drabbles I've posted on my blog!

Everyone knows, from here to Saint Denis, that you and Arthur Morgan mix like oil and water.

To say it’s as simple as that is the greatest understatement of the century though, because this feuding of personalities isn’t just like oil and water, it’s like gasoline and open flame – it’s explosive and, a bit like arson, isn’t something you want to stand too close to.

Tonight’s row starts on already short fuses. The summer heat is getting to all of you.

“ – So you decided, _gee, Arthur won’t be needin’ this much, huh?_ Damn it, woman, tha’s my only _pen_ –”  


He’s hot on your heels, boots stompin’ along. Always stompin’. He is _always_ barreling through places. There’s nothing _graceful_ about Arthur Morgan. He’s cigarettes and lassos and quick-draws. He wouldn’t know sophistication is it slapped him in the face. And he certainly wouldn’t know _patience._

In his haste, he steps on the back of your boot.

You throw your hands, then, spinning on a heel and stopping him dead in his tracks. The blonde outlaw recoils, lip snarling as you match his temper. “Oh, right, so next time, I’ll make sure I ask! Just so you can say _no!”_

_“_ Exactly!”  


“You are _ridiculous –”_

_“_ It’s _my pen –”_  


“Had I known,” you chirp, turning back and marching towards your tent, illuminated in the warm glow of lamps and the moon hanging over the lake, “I wouldn’t have _touched it_ , Mr. Morgan –”  


“Aw, tha’s awfully kind a’ ya’, _Miss Turner.”_  


He uses your name as a dig. You shoot him a look as you snatch the pen sitting on your make-shift desk. 

Unceremoniously, you slap it into his chest as you shoulder by, intent on making your way back to Lenny’s side at the poker table. You’d had good hands until Mr. Mean stormed back into your orbit, demanding the pen you’d borrowed from the camp’s common table earlier in the day.

“There, have it! Sorry I even _touched it._ Good-bye and good night, Mr. Morgan.”  


But, while you’re keen on leaving this row to die in the dirt, Arthur is more keen on the open journal on your desk – for a moment, there’s a glint of a boyish glow on his face; quickly, seizing the rush of mischief like a passing solar flare, the outlaw snatches the leather-bound journal and begins thumbing through the pages.

You stop in your tracks when he clears his throat, drawl fleeting across familiar words –

“ – _I must say, th’ romanticization a’ old-western-esque figures is rather misguided, as these cowboys ‘n’ outlaws display th’ utmost quintessence of humanity –”_  


Arthur’s got his nose turned up, jaw jutted as he begins to pace – your face twists into something mighty fierce at that and you _lunge_ like a wild hellcat at him, clawing to tear the journal from him. He’s laughing, all booming and warm and if you didn’t _hate him,_ maybe you’d find it endearing. 

“My, my,” Arthur chirps after you’d successfully pried the book from him, “What a _vast_ range a’ vocabulary you got, Miss Turner.”  


“Next time,” you snap, “I’ll use small words so that you’ll be sure to understand, you… _you…_ warthog-faced _baboon!_ “   


“Oh, who you callin’ a baboon?” he jeers, pointing at his face, “Do I _look_ like a baboon?”

“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” you chirp, “Like the _rear-end a’ one.”_  


Fifteen feet away, Dutch and Hosea decide it best to let the gasoline and open flame burn for a little bit longer – don’t want to go burnin’ themselves, y’see? And, well, you two have each other handled. The table watches, for a moment, as Arthur throws his hands and curses, pointing and saying something about _y’ damn attitude –_

The poker game continues to the backdrop of bickering.

Burn, baby, burn.


	2. A mile in the dirt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested: How about "you’ve been mostly-dead all day.” with Arthur?

You’re honestly shocked to see him up for dinner.

It hadn’t escaped your ears that Arthur had ran into some trouble with a few men calling themselves _Leymone_ _Raiders_ in the wee hours of the morning – he’d been out scouting a train robbery with Charles when a group of five had gotten the jump on the two of them. 

As much as you’d hate to admit it, you’d _genuinely_ been worried when you first heard. Mary-Beth had found you by the water, urging you that Arthur was in rough shape and Charles was real shaken up. You jumped to help, retrieving a whiskey from the back wagon for Hosea to clean Arthur’s wounds with.

The two men, as much as you can’t _stand_ one of them, are unspoken leaders within the gang. Without them, foundations of life would be shaken. There’d likely be no good coming of it.

And no one to pester when you’re bored.

But, the worry died quick when you and the camp got the full story as Arthur slept a few feet away.

_Apparently,_ Charles had to make work on all five of the raiders because, well, Arthur had been _bucked._ Then to make matters worse, he was dragged half a mile down the road by his horse, Sugarcube, with his foot caught in the stirrup. The entire way he’d been screaming, Charles said, ducking and rolling to dodge bullets being shot at him,

The mental image is _hysterical_ and it settles a smug smirk on your face as the aforementioned, bruised outlaw drops himself into the stool across from you with a potent amount of discomfort.  


“Rough ride?”  


“Ha _ha_ ,” he bites back, “Don’t you ‘ave an encyclopedia t’ parse, Miss Turner?”  


You drop your chin onto your fist, trying to memorize the pitiful look stuck to his face. “Y’know, Mr. Morgan, you’ve been mostly dead all day. It was wonderful. I haven’t heard peace an’ quiet like that in weeks. Despite your snoring, that is.”

Arthur’s eyes roll – he points with his spoon, mouth full of stew when he speaks. His voice is tight with annoyance. “Th’ day I die, yer gunna realize how much you _really_ like me, y’know. S’ gunna break yer little heart, the loss of poor ol’ me.”

“Why don’t we test that theory out?” you jab, blinking back down at your book, “I mean, Sugarcube _really_ tried –”

Embarrassment flashes across Arthur’s face so fast you nearly miss it. He shakes his head, blinking over at the horse stabled by the hay.

“ – _Christ_ , who told you?”  


“Charles,” you grin, shrugging, “Half a mile’s a long way to ride in the dirt, cowboy.”  


Arthur sighs, scooping up more stew and chewing. He decides it best to ignore you – and you get the message. You decide not to test your luck. With his current state, you’d most likely kill him if you kept the bickering up.

So, for the first time in weeks, you both sit in silence. One could call it _civil,_ even. It’s certainly a welcome change of pace because you’re rather easy on the eyes when you’re not ribbing him for fun – your nose is buried in your book, eyes scanning the pages as the late night, summer wind greets you both. The sun dips the clouds into pinks and purples, casting the night in a romantic hue. You look awfully lovely posed against it, he must say.

Arthur, catching himself, thinks maybe he _did_ hit his head a bit too hard.

You don’t speak again until Arthur ambles up, standing with a pained groan.

“Arthur.”  


“Mm.”  


“I’m glad you’re alright,” you say slowly, not bothering to look up. There’s a sheepishness that weighs your words down, striking him right in the ribs and sticking there.   


Arthur pulls the spoon from his mouth, cracking a smirk. “M’ tellin’ you… the day I die…”

He begins to back away, and you scoff.

“Don’t push your luck, cowboy.”


	3. Of reputations + gifts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested: "why are you smiling?" with arthur?? please! :)

Arthur Morgan will tell you he’s a bad man.

(In principal, it’s laughable that he needs to justify his atrocities, _but_ such goes the way of maintaining a reputation, you suppose.

At surface level, he may seem imposing and rugged and horrible – all armed to the teeth and six feet tall – but he is _far_ from those things. Rugged, _maybe_ , but the outlaw is truly good-natured and burdened with a kind heart which he dares not acknowledge in fear of it shifting his solid reputation as the Van der Linde gang’s lead enforcer. It shines in chores around camp, charitable donations to not only the ledger but folks around town – he is the first to ride off trail, following a distant cry for help.

When acknowledged, though, Arthur simply waves it off as coincidence.)  


You and Mr. Morgan got off on the wrong foot. Everyone is aware – and so the precedent of gasoline and open flame was born. But, Arthur acts like it was _bound to happen,_ you bein’ a high-class lady and him bein’ a bad man, and… well, Hosea had _mentioned_ something in passing about Arthur and _high-class ladies._

However, Arthur was the one to _kidnap you,_ throw you off Fool’s Pass, haul you through half of West Elizabeth on his back _hogtied_ , and subsequently strand you with the Van der Linde gang when the ransom he’d kidnapped you for in the first place never showed up. 

You consider the animosity well-earned.

So, imagine your damn surprise when Arthur Morgan brings you a _gift._ One that, contrary to popular belief, _he didn’t even steal._  


Arthur and Dutch and Hosea ride back into camp early in the evening, hitching their horses and meandering back in just in time for an early dinner Pearson had thrown together – the hot humidity and high moon hang over the camp by Rhodes as the frogs sing by the creek and laziness sticks to you all. Dinner is spent in relative silence and you decide, on a whim, to take your stew back to your cot to snack as you finish your book.

It’s one you’re lending from Miss O’Shea – some political diatribe on the recent war. It’s _dry,_ but informative, and you happily settle in. It’s cooler by the water and your tent’s flaps flutter in the breeze. You lose yourself in it, for a moment – the sounds of the creek, the stew in your belly, the words on the page…

It’s the clearing of a throat that pulls you from the bliss.

“Evenin’, Miss Turner.”  


When you look up, it’s Arthur – his gambler’s hat is pulled away gripped tight between two hands, revealing neatly trimmed hair and a bright look in his blue eyes. Clearly, the day trip into Saint Denis had done him and his rugged reputation some good, no thanks help to the local barber. He looks _handsome._

Not that _handsome_ was a _new_ adjective to describe Arthur Morgan. It’s always been up there, right alongside imposing and _bad,_ even if he didn’t know it. It’s hard not to think him good-looking, even in a moment like this where you’re suddenly aware of him and his potential ill-intentions. 

After all, it was only last week you’d been joking about reveling in his dodged death-via-Sugarcube. You wouldn’t put procuring a _snake_ as a gag past Arthur Morgan at this point.

He knows how much you hate those wretched, little, legless things.

You close your book slowly, suspicion painting your features.

“Can I _help_ you, cowboy?”

The nickname is said with a sort of fondness that either of you aren’t really sure of. It stokes something in Arthur, a bleak hope for a future, maybe – but, he doubts it so fast it snubs the fire the moment it sparks. The outlaw shifts on his boots. His spurs tinker in the night air. 

He feels like a damn idiot. A fool. A god _damn fool._ Here he is, standing in your tent’s doorway like an oaf. He ducks, entering your tent slowly – he’s painfully aware of the space he’s taking up, now, and he toes the dirt. 

_ Might as well spit it out, then, Arthur. _

“I… uh, I got you somethin’ – from Saint Denis,” the outlaw moves then, placing his hat back on and rummaging in his handy satchel, “S’ nothin’ special but –”

He hands you a pen. 

A fountain pen, to be exact – gold and slim with a good weight and a sharp quill for a tip. It is, honestly, rather beautiful and you can’t help but blink when he offers it to you in a calloused hand.

“… So you don’t go _stealin’_ mine, ya damn pickpocket.”  


It’s spoken with an amused tone, his drawl lulling it just enough while trying to be like the gasoline and open flame you’re both so used to. Though, right now, the burning between you both is warm and welcoming and your stomach does a bit of a flip when he nods, urging you to take it. 

“Mr. Morgan…” you’re openly admiring it now and pride surges into Arthur’s chest, “You didn’t have to –”  


“Yeah, yeah, don’t think too much on it, okay?” he chirps, noting the sudden sweetness in your tone. He waves it off, “M’ jus’ doin’ myself a favor. Tryna keep my pens safe.”  


“Of course.”  


He turns then, hat swept off his head again as he goes to push a rough hand through his hair – blue eyes dart back to you for a moment and a smile muscles its way onto the outlaw’s face.

“Why are you smilin’ like that, woman?” he asks, raising a hand and shaking his head with a stern reminder, “I _told_ you, don’t think too much on it –”  


“Arthur Morgan,” you breathe, grinning wide at him. You set the pen down on your desk, leaning back on your hands and shaking your head, “You are a man full of contradictions, you know that?”  


“I… I thought I was a baboon’s behind, Miss Turner,” he says with a mischievous smile, “I s’pose _a man full of contradictions_ is a leg up, then.”  


You both break into laughter – the sound is tight and itching to be more than just a rarity. He takes his leave then, making the doorway to your tent feel emptier than ever. 

You eye the pen on your desk.

Across camp, Hosea and Dutch watch a smiling Arthur Morgan enter his tent.

Arthur Morgan is hardly a bad man at all. In fact, most days, he’s the best of them all.


	4. A deal is a deal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Arthur is just so cute when he blushes!

“I ain’t takin’ you into Saint Denis, Miss Turner, now quit askin’.”

Arthur pushes his sleeves up, swiping at the sweat on his forehead as he hauls the bail of hay up into his arms and over his shoulder. The product of the summer heat has dampened his shirt – sticking it to his back and silhouetting the shear strength set in his shoulders and arms. It’s moments like these where you’re reminded that Arthur Morgan has been built from a hard life _._ He’s no young man, either, and years of running, gunning and killing have made him who he is today:

Imposing, rugged, bad. ~~Handsome~~. 

_Irritated_.

Despite all that, you’re at his heels, ignoring the consequences of him ever following through on some of his empty threats that have been hurtled your way within the last hour. Under the high afternoon sun, the camp has dispersed into the shade – aside from you and Arthur, that is, battling back and forth in the small field by the trail.

You cross your arms, squinting into the sun as you follow him up the hill.

“An’ why not, Mr. Morgan?”  


He whistles quick, ignoring you in favor for beckoning the horses to the bundle in his hands. In a blink, the irritation set in his shoulders melts away in favor for affection. His voice dips low in a sweet greeting at the three horses who leave the watering trough and approach him; his laugh is followed by a gentle hand and warm smile.

For the first time all afternoon, he is _really_ smiling (not the sarcastic one he’d served you at lunch when he’d _insisted_ you get stew first) and it’s not lost on you – from your spot by the watering trough, you watch eagerly as he gives his own horse a hearty pat and muscles a carrot from his back pocket. He sneaks the treat as if it’s forbidden, only before snapping another into two pieces for Dutch and Charles’ horses.

Arthur Morgan is a curious man.

Arthur hums as he pushes a hand through Sugarcube’s main – it’s gotten long and snarled and it’s no good thing. The white hairs fall in the thoroughbred’s eyes and blink with her lashes. 

Arthur tuts. 

“I asked y’ a question, Arthur –”

“Because,” he says, not really paying you any mind, “I _said_ so.”  


A pause. You take note of his apparent attention.

“… If you take me into town for an hour, I’ll brush out Sugarcube’s mane and braid it nice – y’know, tight an’ neat like the racehorses at the derbies.”

Arthur turns then, hand still patting Sugarcube. His face is twisted into an amused grin. For the first time all afternoon, you can spy the faint appearance of a sunburn across his nose. He’s turning pink. His ears, as well, have gone red with the heat and sun.

“… Are you tryna bribe me, Miss Turner?”  


“It’s better than tryna _seduce_ you, ain’t it?” you say with a half-heartedness that surprises you. You wonder, offhandedly, if you’ve been spending too much time with Karen, “Besides, Sugarcube’s mane is a right mess.”

This time around, you aren’t sure if it’s the afternoon sun or comment that turns him cherry red. Arthur’s shoulders tense at the sudden imagery – out of character for both you and him. Suddenly locked knee deep in a fantasy he didn’t even know he yearned for, Arthur finds himself stammering through a sentence.

“Yeah,” he offers, distracted, “Well, fine. One hour. An’ you better make th’ braids neat.”

“Of course, Mr. Morgan.”


	5. Fears overcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: does miss turner braid sugarcube's hair? are they friends? does arthur's horse love miss turner? hate her? i need to know bc i feel like arthur morgan's whole heart would explode upon the two of them lovin' it up

Arthur brings you into Saint Denis the next morning. 

(It’s a part of the deal you’d struck – that you’d braid his horse’s unruly mane in trade for an hour of shopping in town.)

The ride, albeit a bit long, is quiet and peaceful and both of you try your best to pay no mind to the closeness shared on the back of his horse. Your arms, wound around his waist, grip his sides tight as you wind through the peeper filled trails by the bayous and bogs of Rhodes. 

Under the rising sun, Arthur Morgan’s silhouette is something soft – it’s a welcomed sight. 

“Y’ best behave yerself now, Miss Turner.”  


He says it with a smile, hand offered as he helps you down from the saddle once in the town’s center.

You part ways, promising to meet him behind the grocery in an hour – and you set off to grab a few things from the shop stalls there.

(To grab him a better journal, too, seeing as his is nearly full. You’d overheard him complaining a few days ago to Mary-Beth, those two writers. And, after using the pen he’d given you, repaying him had been on your mind ever since.)

It’s _nice_ to be around people again, to be out and about. You’d nearly forgotten what it was like to amble around, taking in the sights of sociability. Saint Denis, despite the early morning hour, is bustling.

Arthur’s resting comfortably against the horn on Sugarcube’s saddle when you find him after an hour of shopping. His hat is tipped low, shadows from the sun obscuring his face and leaving just the sharp line of his jaw. Smoke swings from his cigarette, winding high around him like a halo. He’s certainly a sight to behold – he sticks out like a sore thumb around all the well-to-do folks of this town. 

“Ready?” he asks when he catches an eyeful of you, all summer glow and gentle smiles. He flicks his lit cigarette into the mud, annoyance at his own sweetness biting him.   


“Sure am,” you say, muscling into your bag and procuring a quick snack for Sugarcube. You freeze, though, staring at her with wide-eyes. You’re ignoring him, trying to gauge the mighty beast before you, “You?”  


Arthur watches with a curious look.

It’s no small secret you’re _terrified_ of horses.

If Jenny’s teasing hadn’t been enough to clue everyone in, you’d openly admitted it to little Jack Marston one night after he’d cried during a storm. He’d clung to Abigail, wailing as a heat storm roared in the distance, and you’d been quick to calm him – 

“I’m afraid a’ _lotsa_ things, Jackie,” you’d whispered to the young boy, a finger on his cheek as the camp watched on around the fire, “ _Snakes_ , mostly, an’ deep water scares me a lot – I’m a bad swimmer. And! _Horses_ – you’re much braver than me, Jackie, I’m terrified of horses! Can you imagine? A brave cowboy like you, well… there’s nothin’ t’ be ashamed of, not when you could be afraid of horses. Storms are _right_ scary.”

Arthur had watched on, eyes brimming with adoration. Fatherhood and other dead hopes snapped at his heartstrings.

He hops down, then, spurs landing in the dirt.

Arthur motion for you to give him your hand. 

You do so, watching him with curiosity – he gestures slowly, one hand moving to pat Sugarcube’s neck as she whinnies; Arthur, with practiced ease, takes the carrot half and raises it, rumbling out a soft:

“Like this.”  


Open handed, he lets her pluck the treat. 

When he blinks back at you, your smile isn’t anxious – it’s settled into an excited wonder as you nod and take the other half. You do as he says, stepping forward and opening your palm. At the sight, Sugarcube bows her head up and down and up and down as if to laugh.

Arthur pats her neck, smiling. “Easy, _easy_ , she’s alrigh’.”

“Here y’are, Sugarcube,” you breathe, laugh peeling high and full of happiness when she takes the treat and munches contentedly. You bounce excitedly, hands finding Arthur’s arm as the horse nudges herself your way and you accept the companionship eagerly. You squeak, eyes tightening shut as she nudges your cheek with her snout and snorts. Your hair flies and Arthur laughs, booming and honest, with eyes bright as you swipe at the wetness left from her nose.   


You run your hands up and down her jaw, then, uneasiness melted away. Arthur does the same, leaning to push some of those unruly white hairs from his stead’s eyes.

“Y’ still wanna braid her mane, then, Miss Turner?” he drawls, “Now that you’ve overcome yer fear?”  


Sugarcube is _more than content_ with the new friend she’s made. It shows when you pull away, turning to look up at the towering outlaw. 

Something about him, in this moment, strikes you right in the chest. The soft expression on his face is _rare_ – usually, he’s wearing a mask of bitterness; right now, in the Saint Denis morning sun, he’s _happy._ It’s a good look on him, you reason, and wonder hopelessly if it’s a product of your company.

It is – I mean, he’d _never_ admit that. Not with his record of broken hearts and naivete when it came to things like love. He’d settled long ago that he was destined to ride this life _alone_. The mere idea of you sharing the same foolish sentimentality as him was laughable at best.

You’re about to open your mouth, agree, tell him he looks mighty proud of himself when the horse nudges you forward, her forehead meeting your back, sending you straight into Arthur’s chest.

You yelp, hands finding his waist as you steady yourself in the dirt. Arthur’s hands fall along your arms, rugged smile pulled onto his face. He serves Sugarcube a look, then, over your shoulder. His brows are raised, corner of his mouth quirking.

“ _Really_ , girl,” he rumbles, “Where are yer manners?”  


A whinnied clop. She digs her hooves into the dirt. 

You right yourself, smoothing down your skirt before clearing your throat. Upon realization that his hands are still on you, holding you close, Arthur pulls them away fast. 

The moment has passed. Back you both go to gasoline and open flame. He clears his throat. 

“Best we head back, Dutch was sayin’ somethin’ about a storm rollin’ in tonight.”

“ _Red sky at morning_ –” you rumble, imitating the camp’s cook.

“Christ, woman,” he groans, “If I hear Pearson say tha’ one more damn time –” 

Arthur offers you a hand then, steadying Sugarcube as your boot finds the stirrups. You hoist yourself up, hold lingering as you laugh at his bitterness. Arthur ignores the burning it stokes in his chest. 

“He’s certainly something, isn’t he?” you ponder, watching Arthur swing himself up and throw his leg over the saddle. It’s graceful. Your hands find his waist again, chin leaning on his shoulder, “We should cook _him_ up for dinner – the stew might taste better.”  


The intimacy of the moment isn’t lost on the outlaw. He blinks to the left, face close to yours. Arthur laughs loudly, trying to still his beating heart. “You’ve been with us too long.”

“What? Because I’m makin’ jokes, now?”  


“No,” he rumbles, “Because you’re makin’ sense.”  


Sugarcube whinnies happily and off you three go, back to camp to eat and braid and rest before the evening storm. 


	6. Sisters no more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: What happened to Miss Turner’s sister in your RDR2 series? Also you’re writing is ART and I hope it brings you happiness and is rewarding because it’s so damn good.

The evening is all quiet. Peaceful, even. _Then,_ a distant scream. 

Promptly, the Turner Sisters tear through camp like a hurricane.

“I am _done!_ Done, _damn it!”_  


It’s Jenny, your younger sister, screaming like a hellcat – her hands are in the air, eyes wild with a biting sort of fear like a horse ready to buck. The contrast between you two couldn’t be more astronomical. It’s a fact the entire gang of Van der Linde’s came to realize early on. You, despite the circumstances, began to pull your weight – all the while, your sister had refused, citing the crime of kidnapping and how _‘that didn’t earn you a maid’._

When you’d been sat down by Dutch and Hosea and Arthur, urged seriously to pen a letter for you and your sisters safe return in exchange for $15,000, _you_ weren’t surprised when the payment never came. 

Jenny, on the other hand, was _astounded_.

_“_ Will you _calm down?”_

By now, most of the camp had retired for the evening, save for some of the men up playing poker with bourbon in their bellies. Arthur is among them, settled beside Lenny, Hosea, Bill and John. The group can’t _help_ but eye the sudden conflict brewing between both the sisters – your tired annoyance is very real under the high-hung moon. 

“No!” Jenny shrieks, “I won’t! I will _not_ – I can’t even… I cannot even _pee_ without _nearly dyin’_ out here! An’ you want me to ‘ _calm down’?_ What in the fresh hell has gotten into you, huh?!”

Your hands hit your hips and you narrow your eyes. Jenny, now, is waking up half the camp with her antics and – well, you’re not in the mood. Not with her sudden spike in attitude. 

“Keep your damn voice down, you idiot.”  


“I will _not!”_  


Arthur winces at the risen octave. Hosea mimics the motion. However, you beat them both to the punch of stepping in, rearing up fast on your sister and pulling her in by the collar of her dress. 

“I _said_ –”  


Jenny’s hand careens across your cheek hard and fast.

For a moment, you can hardly believe it.

“This – all of this – is your _damn fault,_ you hear me?!” Jenny seethes, now garnering the tired eyes of the Van der Linde gangs recently awoken members.   


You suddenly feel smaller than ever before, rendered stuck as the camp looks on. Jenny, however, sees it as a moment to jump on your bones and pick you apart.

“If _you_ had just said _yes –_ if you had thought about _our family,_ ” Jenny jabs at your chest, “Then we wouldn’t _be here._ We’d be safe and at home and _happy_ – but, no. You went and _messed it all up.”_  


With every malicious syllable falling from your sister’s mouth, your patience winds lower and lower and lower and suddenly, you’re not so small. You’re the open flame coaxed to life by anger.

“Stop it.”

Another jab. 

“ _Your. Fault.”_  


Arthur can see the tension snap in your shoulders.

You wind up, then, shoving your sister so hard she hits the ground a few feet back. The camp muffles a sound of shock, jaws slack as you bend and fist the front of her dress, dragging her back up and plowing her towards the poker table – she lands with a hard breath and sends the poker chips flying, her shrieks silences by _you,_ now screaming.

“Me?! My fault – you’re a _child, Jenny –”_  


_ “All you had to do was marry him!”  
_

The game scatters, jaws slack as the familiar feud peaks. Jenny pulls herself from you, hair wild. You’re in no better a state; your eyes are wild with anger, hair flying in unruly strands from your high-wound braid. Arthur moves, then, hands on your arms as he tries to calm you down.

“Hey, hey –”  


“What did you just say t’ me… ?”  


It’s said so low, so fearsome, Jenny’s starts putting distance between you both, born out of fear and the already apparent ache of the well-deserved roughing up. Even Arthur backs off.

You’re sharpening your words, crowding her with feet carrying you forward.

“I did _everything_ for our family, you silly little girl,” you hiss, “Everything. I risked my happiness, my _life,_ for what? For a marriage to some seventy year old railroad magnate – for a family fortune destined for our father’s pocket?!”  


Jenny swallows. “That’s not –”

“Not true?” you bite, “Not _true?!”_  


_“_ I didn’t mean –”  


“What? What, Jenny, pray tell? Didn’t mean t’ have me married off? Send me on my way an’ never see me again? It was all for th’ damn _money,_ you stupid child! It was _always_ for the money! When I wanted to go to school? When I wanted to move away? I couldn’t because of the money. An’ when I _said no_ to ol’ Waylon Robbins that morning – I said _no_ to the money. And _that_ is why father isn’t payin’ that damn ransom, because I _thought_ for _myself.”_  


Your screams die, Jenny’s stopping as she runs into a tired Dutch’s chest. She blinks, swiveling and realizing she _did_ wake up the whole camp. You had simply finished the deed.

Now, there’s only the sound of the crickets and peepers in the creak. 

Eyes watch as you tuck strands of hair behind your ears, realization striking you that you that you’ve become the sudden attention again. Arthur sighs, sharing a sad look with you.

You exhale, dropping your head and letting your hands fall to your waist.

The prick of tears is in your eyes, born out of frustration and annoyance and exhaustion and the fact that you’d been bottling all this up – and now it’s there, in the open, and everyone knows it. The outlaw to your left wants nothing more to reach out, to calm you down, to promise it’s alright.

He doesn’t.

“If you’re _done_ airin’ my business to the entire camp,” you say slowly, swiping at the tears running along your cheeks, “I think it best you go to bed. I’m sure Dutch an’ Arthur would be kind enough to drop y’ off at the nearest train station come mornin’.”  


Jenny’s jaw falls slack. “… What?”

“I mean it.”  


“… But…”  


“I’m not goin’ back. Not to them, not to Waylon, not to father, not to any of it.”

“That’s our _family_ –”  


“Yea,” you hum, turning on your heel, “An’ you can go ahead on back t’ them an’ realize all th’ things I protected you from, Jenny Mae. If you’re so keen on seein’ me married, why don’t _you_ go ahead and call on Mr. Robbins yourself.”  


You disappear into the darkness of your tent, then, not daring to look back. 


	7. Emotional left hook.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: r u joking me uh MISS TURNER cleaning up a BEAT UP ARTHUR’S WOUNDS i LOVE MY SOFT BOY

You haven’t been the same since your sister Jenny left.

Dutch had sent her on her way with parting words and threats veiled within hugs as they posed as cousins departing in the Rhodes railway station.

_ Best not tell anyone where we’re at, Miss.  _

She will, of course, but it’s one less mouth to feed and one less conflict dividing the camp. 

After Jenny’s less than kind words, the Van der Linde’s gang had been more than careful with you – and it was driving you up the wall. You weren’t some wallflower to be marveled at.

You’re angry – and, not wanting to inflict that upon others, you pull away.

You don’t eat with the girls at dinner, instead holing yourself up with your book and doing your chores around camp in silence. You keep your head down, even going so far as to _walk past_ Arthur when he rides back from hunting with Charles without a word. 

Typically, he’d _at least_ get a hello.

Your mood is making Arthur Morgan just as bitter.

Everyone notices it. At first, it was thought that _maybe,_ just maybe, Arthur had gotten himself into a bad mood with the climbing heat – he’d has always had a short temper in the summer months – but, it’s not until Mary-Beth and Tilly overheard Miss Grimshaw griping about ‘ _how Arthur hasn’t had it this bad since that wretched little wench, Mary Linton’_ to Hosea one morning that they piece together what’s going on.

And, if anyone can read the outlaw, it’s Miss Grimshaw. She has, after all, known Arthur nearly as long as Hosea and Dutch.

Mary-Beth and Tilly, for all the romance-novel-reading they do, can’t believe that hadn’t noticed it sooner. 

Arthur Morgan is _sweet_ on Miss Turner.

And, so began to the week of hell in Camp Van der Linde. 

Arthur’s mood is a wretched thing – he can barely sit still with you like this and he _hates_ himself for it. I mean, you’re _clearly_ upset and no amount of him tryin’ his best to cheer you up seems to help (though, really, he limits himself only to small talk and bringing you coffee; the need for distance is driving his heart apart). You just… _pass him by_ with a sad look on your face. 

Even Sugarcube, for all her trying, isn’t able to get you to perk up a smidgen. No matter how many nuzzles and whinnies she gives.

Given all that, Arthur is like a hurricane, tearing through camp. 

After five days of this nonsense, everyone in camp has had it. 

Karen has started a tally of how many long-drawn sighs Arthur tosses in your wake. She’s up to six.

That’s when Dutch and Hosea decide some fresh-air might help.

So, they go out fishing. 

(In reality, they get up to more than just fishing – they run into Rhodes’ sheriff and deputy and a sad lookin’ Trelawney being carted in the back of a jail cart. Arthur is dispatched to help catch the Anderson Boys and, after one fist fight, one knife fight, and nearly falling off a moving train three times, he ends up being recruited as a _damn_ deputy.)

When they come back, rowing in just before sunset, Arthur’s got a nasty set of bruises up the side of his face and a bag of fish in his hand. Hosea and Dutch and him are laughing, booming, happy sounds that catch the camp’s ears – Pearson is first to help them pull the boat in.

You spy the trio making their way to the fire. You lean back, swiping at your forehead and leaving your washing for a moment.

Mary-Beth, Tilly and Karen watch as your jaw drops.

“ _Christ,_ Arthur –”  


The outlaw perks up, sheepishly so, at the sound of your voice saying his name. In the orange light of the sunset, you can see the angry purple and black bruises along his cheekbone and eye. His nose is busted along the bridge, lip split. He is, really, in rough shape – but he’s peachy-keen when your hands surge up to touch his jaw. He clears his throat, trying to ignore the evident hammering of his heart at the gentle touch. You turn his head, shock slapped on your face.

“S’ nothin’, Miss Turner,” he rumbles, “Really.”  


“Did a _fish_ do that?”  


“Mm,” Arthur chirps, “Sure, big ol’ sturgeon, it had a _mean_ left hook.”  


Pearson leans around you, snagging the bag of bass from the outlaw’s hands. You blink at Dutch and Hosea behind him, sending them off with raised hands as they try to skirt your worry – the camp seems to hang on the interaction, eyes lingering on you and the lead enforcer as you drag him towards his cot and force him to sit. 

Susan Grimshaw hums. Mary-Beth, Tilly and Karen can hardly look away. Forget those silly romance books, _this_ is the real thing. 

Away from the mid-evening bustle, Arthur can finally get a good look at you; you’re digging through a box Hosea had set aside on Arthur’s desk, pulling out rubbing alcohol and a pad of gauze. You are, really, a sight for sore eyes. The summer sun has you looking like something out of a dream – glowing. Your hair, swept up and away, frames your face with fly-away’s. 

“I swear,” you mutter, “One of these days –”

“I’ll be alrigh’, Miss Turner,” he says slowly, watching as she pulls at the gauze, dunking the alcohol on it, “Nothin’ a lil’ sleep won’t fix.”  


“Good thing you were already mean-lookin’,” you chirp the _bold lie_ , moving to stand close and tilt his jaw up, “These bruises sure ain’t gonna make you any prettier.”  


Arthur laughs at that, eyes screwing shut. You grin. 

Quickly, you dab the open cuts along his cheek and nose. He doesn’t even flinch – not a bit – so you make sure to clean them nice and good. He tries to memorize the feeling of your hands along his face. When you turn, Arthur’s eyes are back on you. 

Across camp, Mary-Beth shoulders Karen. “Look at him _look_ at her –”

“He’s got it bad.”

Arthur clears his throat when you swipe at his cheek again.

“Are… Are you alrigh’, Miss Turner? You been awfully quiet this week an’ –”  


“I’m fine,” you say quickly. You note the way he seems to pull away, pull a pout and a dejected look. Quickly, guilt floods you. Arthur doesn’t deserve the treatment. You begin again, fiddling with the gauze, “Just… embarrassed.”  


Arthur shifts on his cot. “… Embarrassed?”

“ – The whole fight, y’know, with Jenny.”  


“If I may say,” Arthur hums, “She deserved it, mouthin’ off like tha’.”  


“Well,” you sigh, “It’s mostly what she mouthed out _about_ that’s got me upset.”  


Arthur pulls a face. “The bit about you and Waylon?”

“I passed up a life some of you would kill for – a life some of you _have_ killed for. All because… All because I wanted to be in love and happy and… It’s stupid. It’s all so _stupid.”_  


You chuck the gauze in the bin, dropping your hands to the edge as you sigh. The sunset has painted the camp all kinds of shades of citrine; it’s calm, with a nice breeze cutting through. By the fire, dinner is being cooked up. The flaps of tents flutter in the wind. 

A moment passes, and Arthur speaks again. This time, it’s a bit gentler.

“I don’ think it’s stupid, Miss Turner.”  


_That_ catches you off guard.

“… You don’t?”  


“No,” he laughs, a bit sheepish, “No – I mean… Before… When I was younger, I was _real_ sweet on this girl – she, uh, she didn’t share the same ideals as you. Family before everything else, y’know? And, uh, marrying for love… It just didn’t happen. She was sad, after that.”  


“… Didn’t work out?”  


“He died,” Arthur says, “And she regretted it. Tried to come back to me.”  


You blink. A brief flare of jealousy strikes you in the chest. You’re not sure how it had been stoked, but it’s alive and burning. You turn and eye Arthur carefully. Blue eyes are stuck on you. Like honey.

“I… I could never,” you muster, “Waylon… he was _seventy_ years old, Arthur –”  


“Christ.”  


“Old as dirt.”  


“… I’d say you dodged a bullet,” Arthur says then, standing and moving to touch your arm, “Don’t beat yourself up too much – sometimes, families aren’t do or die. I’d know.”  


“Yea…?”  


“My pa,” Arthur drawls as he closes the box of medical supplies and moves to shuffle it under his cot, “was a no good bastard. Left me with nothin’ but his hat an’ memories.”  


“An’ your ma?”  


“Don’t remember her much,” Arthur says, eyes falling on the framed portrait by his bedside, “…Dutch an’ Hosea have been the only real family I’ve had. An’ John, if you count ‘im. Slippery bastard.”  


You laugh, fiddling with your hands as Arthur steps outside his tent. His hand falls along your back, leading you gently – he is _every bit_ a gentleman when he wants to be. It never ceases to amaze you. 

“So, what I’m sayin’ is… Let us be yer family. We’ll keep y’ safe. Sure won’t try an’ marry y’ off any time soon, that is.”  


“I think, Mr. Morgan,” you say slowly, eyes glued to his smile as he approaches dinner. Everyone seems to perk up at the appearance of you both – Karen and Mary-Beth and Tilly are grinning like silly. You smile fondly their way, “I don’t have much choice.”  


“‘Course y’do,” he smirks, “Y’ jus’ like us too much.”  


“Right, well, with you gettin’ _beat on_ by fish –”  


“Like I said, _mean_ _left hook.”_  


You laugh so brightly, Arthur’s whole world stops. The Van der Linde gang watches on, enraptured at the prospect of their lead enforcer being locked in the gooey tempo of love-sickness. Hosea and Dutch share knowing looks. It is _rare,_ this moment of happiness and peace that washed over Arthur’s face. He isn’t bitter. Isn’t old. He’s boyish and young and _stupid_ for being in love.

You sit shoulder to shoulder with the blonde outlaw that night, deciding that, well, he’s _right_.

Family doesn’t need to be blood; _this_ is right enough.


	8. Misheard, one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Okay so we have Arthur blushing, but what about Miss Turner blushing??

Karen’s the first to bite into the juicy topic come day break.

Most of the men are off hunting – some sort of bonding trip that Dutch had insisted upon. After all, the fishing trip the night before had just been _so_ much fun. Hosea and Arthur had saddled up, promising Miss Grimshaw they’d be back by dinner. Pearson and Uncle straggled behind, both citing drink and lumbago as their ailments. 

You busy yourself with the wash from the night before – after dinner, you’d opted to go to bed early and get an earlier start, only to wake and find half the camp gone.

It’s mid-afternoon now and you’re _nearly through_ – but it’s hot. Incredibly hot. Leaning back on your heels, you huff and blow a few strands of hair out of your face. You roll your sleeves, exhaling quick.

“Hey, you.”  


“Please tell me you’re here to save me from the washing.”

Karen laughs, Tilly on her heels. “Nope. Don’t look at me.”

Tilly, though, smiles your way and slips by your side. “I’ll help, Miss Turner.”

“Tilly,” you breathe, “You’re an angel. Karen… well, we all know what sort of biblical deity you are.”  


“ – A succubus?”  


You and the girls break into laughter at Mary-Beth’s chipped in comment. Karen beams, tossing a few blonde curls over her shoulders. “Well, I’ll say, I surely make _Sean_ swear to god.”

“Eugh,” Tilly pulls a face, dipping her hands into the soap and making work on one of Bill’s shirts, “Spare us the details.”  


“Speaking of details –”  


“Arthur.”  


You blink up at Mary-Beth at the mere _mention_ of the outlaw, maybe a bit too quickly. She’s clutching her journal, eyes pulled all wide and excited. It’s quick that you realize _all_ the girls are sporting the same look with their gazes glued on _you._ Gawking, you press a hand to your chest. Your face is hot.

“… Me?”  


“You –”  


“– And _Arthur.”_  


You sputter, trying to disperse the evident prying. “I’m… I’m not quite sure what you mean –”

“Don’t play dumb with us,” Karen chirps, “Nuh-uh, listen up, if yer gunna be one of the Van der Linde girls –”

Miss Grimshaw clears her throat before any more of the antics can continue. You all snap to attention, heads ducking down as you move to busy yourself with the wash with even more vigor than before.

When she speaks, it’s lighter than you anticipated. “Best keep those voices of yours down. The boys are due back any moment.”

You share a look with Tilly.

When Miss Grimshaw leaves, you blink back at Karen. “… _Me?”_

_“God,_ are you _thick?”_ Karen hisses, “ _Yes,_ you!”

“And Arthur.”  


More eye rolls.

“He’s just,” you shrug, biting back a surge of your heart, “He’s trying to make me feel better… about _all_ this.”  


“Mhm.”  


“Quit lookin’ at me like that!” you yelp, slapping Karen’s knee in good-nature, “It’s nothin’ _like_ you and Sean swearin’ to the Good Lord together –”  


“But would you _like_ it to be?”   


You blink at Tilly’s question.

You… You hadn’t considered it like that. 

The mere thought of it makes you blush.

Of _course_ Arthur is handsome – strong and tough and honest and good. He may be a wanted man, but he’s kind and he _cares,_ despite the bitter facade he attempts to keep. His reputation proceeds him by miles. Suddenly, you’re called back to your clashing of personalities – the loud rows between tents over _trivial_ little things. And then you think about him recently; he’s been _different._ Less… Less gasoline and more flint. He stokes the open flame with purpose and care. 

The realization strikes you in the face like a slap.

You guffaw. 

“No!” you cry loudly, faking disgust, trying to hide the sudden realization, “No, no. That… He’s… Arthur ain’t my type.”  


It’s the first thing he hears when he hitches his horse. 

Arthur passes by the washing tent without a word, face hardened in an unreadable way that _shows_ he heard you. Your stomach drops and you curse the timing of the men returning to camp. Charles hauls the deer by, exclaiming it’s _dinner time_ – but the last thing you can think about is food.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

And, well, Arthur isn’t far off. He strikes a match on his boot. Anger bites at his fingertips. He inhales his cigarette sharply. Forget flint. He’s dynamite.

After all, he just ain’t your type.


	9. Misunderstood, two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: When I requested “miss Turner blushing” I did not mean for it to end like that! Omg I’m sad now 😔 Hope, unfuck this mess!!! (But do really really love what you wrote and now I’m excited for what’s to come

“Mr. Morgan –”  


“Not now, Miss Turner.”  


You could pull your hair out.

He’s _unbearable_ to be around.

Plainly so.

I mean, even _Hosea –_ a man with so much patience he could be revered as a Saint – can’t stand being around the outlaw for more than five minutes at a time. And that’s saying something. Hosea nearly _raised_ the unruly boy. This new stretch of attitude has him biting off heads at the slightest convenience. 

Christ, he’d snapped at _Javier_ for _brushing_ Sugarcube. 

Not that you’d know – after all, Arthur has ignored you outright for the last three days straight. Hasn’t said a word, save for a biting little comment at dinner the other night about _you bein’ in his way._

It puts you in a bad spot for a day or so – guilt is heavy in your gut at the realization that your words about _him not bein’ your type_ were far from the truth. The girls are nice enough to see it too, and… even _Grimshaw_ tries her best to get you and Arthur in the same place to at least _talk about it._

Dutch is the one that jokes Arthur’s mood brings in three days of late-night, summer storms. The heavy heat is dampened with the cool air the thunderheads roll in on, leaving the camp scrambling for cover at the first crack of lightning.  


Last night, the winds had been so bad, they’d sent Pearson’s tent into the lake.

Just… up and lifted and _threw_ the whole thing.

So, here you are, deciding that if Arthur Morgan wants to ignore your very existence, you’re going to make it mighty hard for him to do just that. You are, plain and simple, sick of moping about.

You follow him as he storms about, following the source of the commotion by the lakeside. It’s Pearson, swearing up a storm about his tent. Dutch is _trying_ to calm the navy-man down, but it’s Arthur who ditches his boots and traipses right into the lake. Always the fixer.

You, hellbent on not letting him off the hook, hop out of your own boots and follow.

And, half an hour later, here you are.

“Jus’… _pull,_ will you?”

“M’ tryin’.”  


“Well,” Arthur snaps, “Try _harder_ , Miss Turner, I’m gettin’ soggy.”  


You’re waist deep in the lake when he starts in, arm dove deep beneath the water as you try to unwrap the tacking from a piece of rotting wood on the bottom of the beach – the red clay has you sinking in and you teeter, one hand gathering your skirt and the other trying to dislodge the knot. 

At his comment, you serve him a look.

“I don’t see you over here,” you snap, “Up to your shoulder in muck, _Mr. Morgan.”_

He’s about to open his mouth, about to dig in, about to the the dynamite struck on an open flame, when Dutch cuts him off.

“I believe it may be a lost cause, you two,” the leader yells, parsing a hand through dark hair, “I think it best a run into town is made. No doubt the Rhodes’ General Store has some tent supplies.”  


You stagger out of the water, skirt weighed down and mud up to your knees. You’re _soaked,_ hair hanging in your face – the front of your blouse clings to you and if you weren’t so _irritated_ with Arthur Morgan, maybe you’d be happy to be cooled off for once. 

“Both of you,” Dutch says slowly, “Get changed and take the wagon –”  


“Oh, no, no, Dutch. I don’t think tha’s a good idea –”  


You narrow your eyes as Arthur turns, leaning in to give your back a hearty pat – it lacks any affection, though. You stagger forward a bit, biting your tongue. His words fly out with malice and that same gut-wrenching guilt you’d sworn you were going to try and beat surges back up in your belly. 

Blue eyes dart between you both. Faux-amusement is written there.

“Y’see, I’m not Miss Turner’s _type_.”  


It’s like a tea kettle has hit it’s boiling point. You give a strangled shriek, annoyance spurring your fists to ball up.

“ _You_ are insufferable!”  


"You’ve already made your feelings for me _painfully clear –”_

He starts up the hill through the camp and you, so hellbent in anger, follow him with wide strides. He’s already working at the buttons on his soaked through shirt, ignoring the beating of the hot sun on his back. If anything, your glare is just as hot. You catch up to him by the stew pot, snagging his arm.

“Will you just _listen_ t’ me?!”  


He shrugs you off, muddy finger pointing in your face.

“I’ve heard _plenty.”_

You don’t let up, though, following him all the way to his tent and stopping short with your hands on your waist. 

“I’ve been tryna talk t’ you for the last three days an’ –”

“ – An’ _I_ don’t wanna hear it.”  


He shirks his clay-caked, navy dress shirt onto his cot, snapping his suspenders down to hang low around his thighs. He turns his back to you as he does so and for one moment, you get a glance at his back – it’s littered with jagged and long and bullet-shaped scars. The sight shuts you up for a breath and you swallow down the want to reach out and touch him. 

Not now.

Arthur takes note of your silence and laughs bitterly. “Y’ say m’ not yer type but you’re awfully keen on _ogglin’.”_

_“That –_ it’s not – I…” you gape, eyes turning up to the ceiling of his tent, “You misunderstand me, Mr. Morgan.”  


“Did I now?”  


“Yes,” you grit, “ _Quite_.”  


He’s working on another shirt, this one is white – and leans, tucking in the hem to his pants. He doesn’t bother to change his jeans. In this heat, they’ll dry soon enough. Arthur lands on his cot, calloused fingers working the buttons into the eyelets. He’s keen on ignoring you; mostly because the _hope_ that he really _had_ gotten this all wrong with you is blinding. He has spent the last three days trying to shut it all out and –

“I’m _awfully sorry_ I ain’t some _rich, old railroad_ _magnate_ , Miss Turner,” Arthur’s voice rises into somethings awfully sharp and angry, then, driving the knife into an already open wound, “So you best find yourself a man who can _replace_ good ol’ Waylon Robbins, certainly that’s _your type_ –”  


That. _That_ hurts. 

You aren’t sure what to say – you really are speechless, left fumbling over the hard punch to the chest his words mimic. To use _that_ against you is… unfair. And rude and mean and awful and terribly unlike the Arthur Morgan you’d gotten to know and you must have looked like you were one beat from crying because suddenly:

“You best get changed, Miss Turner.”  


It’s Hosea.

Your eyes hit the ground. At the gentle touch of the mentor’s hand, you nod – quickly pulling away from Arthur’s orbit and heading back towards your own tent. 

It’s only until you’re out of earshot that Hosea speaks again, this time with the sternness of a father.

“You are going to take her into town, get the tent supplies,” he says, “And you are going to _apologize_.”  


“I ain’t doin’ no such thing.”

“ _Yes,_ you are, Arthur Morgan,” Hosea hisses, jabbing a finger into the outlaw’s chest as he stands, “What has gotten into you? I know you’re _dumb,_ but god – can’t you see she’s trying to _explain herself?”_  


_“_ What is there t’ explain, Hosea?” Arthur stands, face twisted into a sadder sort of anger, “She made her feelings _clear_ –”  


“Did she?” his father-figure jests, “Are we callin’ eavesdropping _clear_ now-a-days? You’re actin’ as if she turned down your hand in marriage, my boy –”  


“Yeah, well,” Arthur grumbles, raising a hand as he leans to pull his boots on, “I’ve been there – I ain’t goin’ down that road again.”  


Hosea sighs. His hand is gentle on the blonde’s shoulder. “The girls pulled me aside, you know, asked if I could do anything – they were ribbing her over chores, y’know, about you two. Karen thinks she… well, thinks Miss Turner was tryin’ t’ be modest.”

“ _Modest.”_  


A bitter laugh.

“You know how it is,” Hosea shrugs, “….High-class ladies and their _modesty.”_  


Arthur, from across camp, catches you emerging from your tent. You’re sweeping your hair up, penning it tight and high away from your neck in a neat bun. You’ve changed into a lighter cotton dress, light blue with delicate floral patterning. It’s Sadie, the recently addition to the gun-slinging gang, that offers you her hat. 

You look beautiful. 

Arthur hates himself. He’s a _fool_.

Hosea can see it.

“Just… talk to her, will y’, Arthur?”  


“Alrigh’, alrigh’.”  


And so, you and Arthur Morgan saddle up, ready to make your way to Rhodes for supplies. You’re quiet on approach and he’s just as bad – not daring open his mouth thanks to the sudden realization that he _really did_ hurt your feelings. Your eyes are watery. 

Guilt bites him in the heart.

You decide it’s best to ignore it. If this is what he’s after… making you _hate him,_ then so be it. Maybe it’s better that way.

He offers to help you up into the wagon.

Much like the day you met him, you swat his hand away.

The first few minutes of the ride are _unbearable_ and Arthur is suddenly _very_ aware of how, with the cold shoulder reversed, miserable this is. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and… well, he deserved it.

Finally, after he’d spurred the horses into a trot and onto the main road, he speaks.

“… I’m sorry.”  


You’re not sure you heard him.

You spare him a side-ward glance and grip your satchel a bit tighter.

Arthur sighs. “I am – I… That was rude of me t’ say back there.”

“It was.”  


“And –”  


“And _cruel_ ,” you snap, voice wavering, “And unfair.”  


“I said I was _sorry_ –”  


“And I don’t want an apology Hosea is _forcing_ out of you, Mr. Morgan,” you say, “If you’re so keen on hating me, then so be it.”  


“I ain’t _keen on hatin’ you.”_  


Arthur sighs, then, disparagingly so. You cross your arms, turning and crossing your legs as the wagon rocks. You make due with the view of the bayous around the trail. You’re sure if you look at him, you’re resolve will just… snap in half.

Another few moments of silence pass between you both and Arthur thinks this is what hell is like. It’s torture. Suddenly, three days worth of shutting it all out is falling apart. After all, how could he push past the feelings he’d realized with you beside him? Pretty and poised in a sundress – looking awfully angry but awfully _beautiful._

God, he’s got it bad.

Finally, he speaks again.

His bitter, rugged facade falls – if just for a moment.

“It hurt my feelings.”  


It’s so quiet, it’s nearly a whisper.

You blink, then, eyeing the slumped posture of the outlaw beside you.

“…What?”  


“It hurt my feelings,” he says again, louder this time, “T’ hear y’ say that – the bit about me _not bein’ yer type.”_

You wring your hands. “Well, you aren’t.”

Arthur blinks. Hurt flies across his face.

“– You’re different from any other man I’ve ever met, is what I meant,” you continue, nervousness not letting you look at him, “It’s not a bad thing – not a… condemning notion. I just… where I’m from, there aren’t any cowboys or outlaws or highwaymen. It’s… It’s all weak-chinned men who talk the talk but – I don’t know. I ain’t never _had_ a type like you. Not that my previous type was anything special.”   


More silence.

Arthur heart is hammering so loud in his chest it’s like the strike of a sledgehammer on a railroad track. He feels – like all at once – his breath has been stolen from him. His eyes are stuck on you, attention diverted from the road. 

“So…” you twiddle your thumbs, sparing him a doe-eyed look.

“… I was an ass.”  


“A dumb-ass,” you correct, “A baboon’s ass, even.”  


Finally, he laughs. _Finally,_ and you feel like smiling again. 

You move, then, leaning and muscling around in your satchel.

You pull out a leather-bound journal. Pulled across the binding is a deep, rich, black leather – the pages are crisp and fresh, a stark comparison to the one in Arthur’s bag. He hit the end of the pages the night before last, scribbling angry notes about how love is one hell of an illness. 

Blue eyes cast across your face, trying to read the emotion there.

“I was gunna give you this, I been carryin’ it around,” you say, “I picked it up in Saint Denis, but… Well, you were busy givin’ me the cold shoulder. It had to wait.”  


Arthur blinks, shifting the reigns into one hand. He takes the journal, eyeing the thick pages. Gratefulness shines in the tender way he holds it.

“… You didn’t –”  


“I did,” you chirp, “I mean, I didn’t _buy_ it –”  


Arthur laughs then, booming and full and happy and it’s like a sun-storm. Your face splits into a grin, finally, after three days of no sun. You bask in it, happy to sail onto better seas. The outlaw’s thumb grazes the cover. You stole. For him.

It means a lot.

“Thank you.”  


“Take it as an apology,” you say, patting his knee, “For hurtin’ your delicate feelings, Mr. Morgan.”  


He shoulders you, pulling a laugh out of your chest. 

“C’mon,” he drawls, “Don’t want the others t’ think y’ broke my heart an’ left me for dead.”  


Onward and upward, straight into the sweetness of _feelings._


	10. A tit-for-tat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Ok ok hear me out, so we know Arthur reads Miss Turner’s journal but what if Miss Turner gets her hands on Arthur’s?

He’s gone for two whole days.

Two. _Only two._

But, with the way Miss Grimshaw’s been harping on you and the other girls, you can’t help but feel like it’s been a damn week. You swear your fingers are worked to the bone from the amount of stitching, washing and cooking you’ve been doing. 

It’s early evening when Arthur returns to camp from the hunting trip (alongside Lenny and Bill and Charles with a boar on each horse). He gives you a good excuse to get out for a while – Miss Grimshaw and Dutch and Hosea don’t ask questions when it comes to the blonde outlaw. It’s just… _one of those things._ They trust Arthur.

Bill nudges Lenny. They’d joked on the trip how Miss Turner was makin’ Arthur soft. This is a show of it. 

“ _Please_ tell me you’re not sick ‘n’ tired of the great outdoors just yet, Mr. Morgan.”  


The sound of your voice meets his ears and Arthur can’t help but grin; he moves slowly, then, lifting the bounty of the hunt from Sugarcube’s saddle and sparing you an amused look. 

“An’ if I am?”

“I’ll drown myself in the lake.”  


Oh, you are quick.

He laughs – loud and true – and strides over to drop the carcass by Pearson’s butcher’s block. The tenderloin will make good stew. Lenny and Bill smirk at the way you watch him, enjoying the fact _they’re right_ – no amount of denying can hide the way Arthur brightens with you by his side. 

He leans, propping himself against the table and folding his arms. “Why?”

“Fishing.”  


“ _Fishing.”_  


You roll your eyes at him, slapping his bicep in good-humor. “Jack was sayin’ how good of a teacher you are –”

“Oh,” Arthur croons, “Was he now?”  


“– And I would love to learn how.”  


Arthur grins, looking mischievous. He kicks off from the table, pulling a sigh and trying to make it seem like this _isn’t_ the nicest thing in the world – a pretty girl like you, seeking him out for some alone time and treating him like he’s some sought after company. He tries to hide his cards, hide the pep in his step.

Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen can see it from a mile away.

“They didn’t teach you _fishing_ in those high-society classes a’ yours?”  


“Oh,” you chirp, “Yes, fishing and hunting were right alongside piano an’ singing.”  


“Singin’?”   


His brows quirk. He turns, walking backwards towards Sugarcube with an piqued interest. Blue eyes scale your face. You’ve gone sheepish. It’s rather adorable.

You clamp your mouth shut, averting your gaze. “I didn’t –”

“ _An’_ piano – my, my, you really _are_ a _lady_ –”  


You shove him backwards with a blooming smile on your face, earning a deep laugh from the outlaw as he nears his horse. The Palamino Thoroughbred whinnies, bowing her head up and down in greeting. You pat her muzzle gently, cooing a bit as Arthur moves to his satchel. 

“I’ve got an extra pole you can use,” he says, “C’mon, then, daylights wastin’.”  


He offers a hand, hoisting you up as you swing to sit side-saddle. He’s up in-front of you in a flash, spurs tinkering as he urges Sugarcube into a light trot. Your arms snake around his waist, palms resting against the curve of his sides. His gun holsters rattle at the pace.

You prop your chin up on his shoulder.

“Miss Grimshaw keepin’ y’ busy?”   


His voice resounds through him, deep and warm, and you can feel it in your chest. It’s satisfying.

“I would be lyin’ if I said she wasn’t the reason I wanted to get away –”  


“And here I was, thinkin’ y’ wanted t’ spend some time with little ol’ me.”  


You cop a grin. “You aren’t my type, remember, Arthur?”

You can feel the way his laugh rattles his ribs. His smile is contagious. The sun is still hanging in the sky, when you come to rest at a spot away from camp on the lake. The water is dancing with a yellowish-blue from the clouds above and you’re content to just… _be._

_“C’mon,_ then. Time t’ put you t’ work.”  


You grin, happily accepting his hand and hopping off of Sugarcube. 

“Now, fair warning –”  


“You aren’t much of a fisherman?” you chirp, quirking a brow, “Dutch told me.”  


Arthur suddenly goes sheepish, cheeks striking a rosy color as he grumbles and itches the back of his neck – that damn story of him, twenty-one and lying about catching three, huge large-mouthed bass for dinner (when really he’d just gone and bought them) has continued to haunt him for the last fifteen years. You, though, seem to get a kick out of it and fall into a spur of giggles.

_He wonders what the hell else Dutch has told you._

“Yea, yea,” he rumbles, “I was _young_ –”  


“Mhm,” you say, taking the offered pole from him, “Go ahead, make some more excuses –”  


Arthur shakes his head, laughing. “You keep that up, I’m gunna have t’ ask you t’ sing.”

“Just because I had _lessons_ ,” you say as you venture closer to the water, “Doesn’t mean I was any good.”  


“Fair enough… I’m still gunna make y’ sing.”

“ _If_ I’ve had a drink,” you raise a finger, “Then, _maybe.”_  


_“My,_ the fair lady drinks?” he chirps, “Jus’ when I’d thought I’d seen it all.”  


You shove his shoulder, rolling your eyes as he moves to settle the tackle box between you both. He bends, groaning a bit, before clicking open the latch and beginning to dig through the baits. After a moment, he finally finds the container he was looking for.

Scrawled across the top reads ‘ _live worms’._

You pull a face.

Arthur cracks open the container and snags his pole, straddling it between his legs and snagging the line between his fingers.

“Hold this…” he blinks up at you, “ _What?_ ”

“They’re… oh, god, they’re _wriggling_.”  


Arthur swears you’re the cutest _damn_ thing alive – he’d kiss you if he had the courage. Instead, he grins and shakes his head. He reaches in, moving to tie the worm around his hook before taking the container from your hands and snapping it shut.

“I’ll show you,” he says, “Then, you can have at it, alrigh’?”  


And so he does. He casts the reel with a long throw and you watch, listening to the _fweeeeeeeeeep, plunk!_ of the bait flying out and hitting the water. It’s nice – quiet and peaceful and calm. Then, his rod pulls.

He reels in the fish and holds it up. 

“If it’s small, you can just…” he tosses the fish, “Let ‘em go.”  


You fumble at first; the worm slips from the hook a few times while you try and skewer it – and the first cast you have is _atrocious._ You nearly take Arthur out with your whipping of the pole. But, with a well-guided hand, Arthur pulls your arm back and shows you the right way to cast. 

You try to ignore how close you are, back pressed right to his chest.

He wanders off after that, leaving you to wiggle the pole every now and again and reel in and cast out. You lose yourself in thought for a bit, focused on the feeling of the rod in your hands and the breeze coming through. 

The sun has started to set in the west, painting the sky and lake all kind of shades of citrine and rose. The world has a rose-tinted glow at this hour. The rustling of the leaves on the trees is like a lullaby and on the far end of the lakeside, you can see a family of white-tailed deer grazing happily.

The buck raises it’s head and you smile.

It’s moments like these that make you thankful for leaving home behind. Some days, it hurts. But, out here – free and true, you remember how nice it is to just breathe and be and live. No money, no rules, no manners. Just… the wild.

You turn your head, catching Arthur Morgan mid-study.

He ducks his eyes immediately, caught in the act of sketching you – from his perch on the rock to your right, he quickly moves to snap close the new leather-bound journal you’d given him earlier in the week. 

“Mr. _Morgan_ –”  


“No, no,” he says, dropping his pencil into his shirt pocket, “Don’t you _start_ –”  


You reel in, propping up the rod on a nearby rock and abandoning it for his sheepish look – he tosses his head back, sighing loudly; you grin, eyes on fire with something dizzying. You climb onto the rock beside him, leaning to try and snag the journal quickly – but Arthur is fast and he knows this game. After all, he’d pulled the same trick on you all those weeks ago to read _your_ journal.

“Aah, aah, _ah_.”  


“Let me see.”  


“No,” he rumbles, “It’s _my_ journal. I’ll draw whatever the hell I please.”  


“… You were drawin’ _me_.”  


“Maybe,” he shrugs, leaning back as you reach again, “An’ you ain’t gonna see it.”  


Courage surges in your chest. Rumor had it Arthur was a bit of an artist around camp. You’d spotted him here and there scribbling in that journal. You’d always assumed it was chicken-scratch. But… with the way he’d just been looking at you… that was a practiced look. 

You hold your breath.

And then it all rushes out.

“How about – if you let me see it, I’ll let you read _any_ page from mine,” you say slowly, “Anything is fair game – Though my poems aren’t very good.”

“… _Poems?_ ”

Consider his curiosity piqued. 

You stick your hand out.

Arthur blinks.

“Deal?”  


“ _Christ_ , sure, alrigh’.”  


It’s childish, he knows, but it fills his chest with an exciting buzz that he hasn’t felt in a long time. This little game – a tit for tat – has his hands sweating a bit as he shakes your hand under the setting sun and – reluctantly – pulls open his journal and flips to the most recent spread.

He hands you the journal and your jaw drops.

To say he’s _good…_ well, that wouldn’t do his skill justice. He’s _wonderful –_ and the full page sketch of you fishing has your heart hammering all the way back to camp. He’s captured you in an idyllic way, hair braided and hat hanging low; the caption beside it reads your initials with a faint heart beside them. The page opposite has a few smaller sketches – of Sugarcube, of a boar, of a few flowers, all accompanied by the flourished script of his handwriting. 

It’s beautiful.

It’s _art._

“… It’s not th’ best I’ve ever done –”  


You gawk, a breathless laugh whisked from your chest as you blink up at him beside you. You cradle the journal with a newfound sense of treasure. 

When you meet his gaze, you’re speechless.

You just… _flounder_ , a bit like a fish, for a moment.

“No one’s ever… _drawn_ me before.”  


It’s all you can say. The gesture of him going so far as to make you a home in his personal journal… is _awfully_ romantic.

Arthur swallows, taking the journal from you and fishing the pencil from his pocket in a way that screams urgency – his cheeks has gone rosy from the attention and he can’t help but drop his gaze from yours.

It’s like staring into the sun.

“I… I could finish it if you’d like,” he says slowly, “You can have it.”  


“… Really?”  


“I have others – I mean, in… uh, I have other _drawings…._ in my other journal –”  


“Of me…?”  


_ You damn fool, Arthur Morgan! _

He gawks. “Uh… Well…”

You can’t help the hopelessly sweet look that blooms on your face. Gently, you urge him on, hand meeting his wrist as he tries to figure out the right words to say.

“…You do, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he says, quickly changing the subject and breaking the moment to spare his heart, “But, I believe you have yer end of th’ deal to keep, Miss Turner.”  


As he turns back to his sketching, you laugh and stand – Sugarcube has your satchel in one of her saddle bags and you make quirk work on digging out your own journal from the depths. It’s nearly full, pages tattered and weathered from it’s use. It’s smaller than Arthur’s, not as thick, but the pages are teeming with content in delicate script.

Arthur’s shading is cut short by your return to the rock.

You offer him the notebook, eyes set ahead of you.

“One page,” you say, raising a finger, “You get to read _one_ _page_.”  


Arthur’s signature boyish grin is back, blooming as he tucks his pencil between the pages of his journal and sets it on the rock behind him. He takes your journal gingerly, thumb gracing your name engraved on the front of it. Immediately, a pressed flower falls out the front.

It’s lilac.

He hands it your way and your fingers brush like the kiss of a match.

Blue eyes dart to yours, measuring the sheepishness on your face. 

You’re not surprised when his fingers flip to the most recent entry, written four days ago – the night after you and him had righted your wrongs on the ride into Rhodes. It’s almost like he knows the writing there will bloom the same amount of anxiousness your admiring of his sketches did. 

He clears his throat and you cry, throwing your hands over your face.

“Oh god, no, Arthur, don’t read it _out loud_ –”  


“ – _It was worth it, the anxiety of tucking a whole journal under by sleeve in that market stall in Saint Denis. I’ve never stolen a damn thing in my life. But, Mr. Morgan deserves something good. He smiled, big and wholesome and warm, when I gave it to him and I think that’s how I like him best; he tries so hard to be bitter, not realizing how easily me and the rest of the camp would kill to see him smile like that again –”_  


You lunge, hands pulling the journal from him as you shriek: “One page!”

Arthur’s face is split into one of those earth-shattering grins, one that you try your best to remember, when you snatch the journal from him – your face is flooded with embarrassment, wishing maybe he’d picked a more poetic paragraph to read. You try and brace for the jeers, but instead, he drops his head and nods. 

A beat of silence.

Your words settle neatly against his ribs. 

“You mean that?”

“… Well, yes,” you breathe, clutching the notebook close to your heart, “Every word.”

“…You’ve never stolen?” he says after a beat, face screwed up, “… Ever?”

“… God, Arthur,” you cry, laughing loudly and shoving his arm, “ _That’s_ what you — That is the _one thing_ you focus on?!”

He grins again, chuckling at your reaction – his ability to not make you feel like a fool is astounding. For a few moments, you both just sit there, basking in the glow of one another under the sunset. The clouds have turned inky purple in the wake of the sharing, breeze turning cooler off the lake as the camp’s fires begin to glow in the early evening light. 

He’s a coward, though, and as much as Arthur Morgan wants to kiss you under the blinking stars, he doesn’t.

Instead, he hops down from the rock and offers you a hand; ever the gentleman.

“Best we head back t’ camp,” he drawls, “It’s nearly supper time.”  


You nod, noting the permanent smile on his face. “Miss Grimshaw’s probably wondering where her favorite laundry girl went.”

Arthur gathers the fishing equipment and you tuck both of your journals back into Sugarcube’s satchels. Upon packing up, Arthur offers a hand again and you find yourself sitting side-saddle as he hauls himself upwards. 

Your hold on him is bit more confident, now. 

Your nose brushes his shoulder. Arthur’s hand pats yours on his hip. 

“Arthur?”  


“Yea?”  


“… Thanks for drawin’ me.”  


You can’t see his face. He’s thankful. His smile is lovesick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @grungydaydreams for their amazing art work they sent in after reading this chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: it’s so important to me that miss turner gets shitfaced and arthur has to look after her

It’s your first _real_ taste of what the Van der Linde Gang is all about.

A bank robbery.

They ride back into camp with hell on their heels late in the night, whooping and hollering and cheering like sinners sweating out the devil. Karen is the first to throw herself from her horse, laughing so hard she’s doubled over in the dirt and Lenny follows – dollar bills flying from his hands like doves in the night.

It’s… _amazing._

To say the robbery was a success is an understatement.

Your jaw _drops_ when you see the thick stacks Arthur Morgan is carrying in each hand. He’s laughing, face split into a proud smile as Bill greets Dutch with a hand full of hundreds. The celebration strikes like the moon pulls high-tide, rolling and washing over the whole camp as the clips of money are handed around like trophies and crates of moonshine are dragged from the backs of wagons.

You’re fleeting around camp, eyes shining with admiration and awe as you watch the celebrations take hold. Karen – she’s too funny – already has a drink in hand, swinging into the chorus of some song you don’t know. She’s handed you the money – her share – and you’re holding it with wide-eyes when Arthur finds you by the bulk of the group.

You gawk up at him by the fire.

“This… _This_ is…”  


He grins, settling next to you as you knock knees with him. He swigs the handle of whiskey in his hands. He thinks that if this is your reaction every time they rob a bank, he may just have to do it more often. It’s adorable. You’re… gobsmacked.

“Arthur, this is – _so much_ money!”  


“That,” he grunts, “it is. And!”  


He digs another clip from his back pocket – his eyes glimmer with amusement as you peel into a round of delighted laughter. You just… _blink at it,_ full of disbelief at the weight and thickness and crisp feel of the _thousand dollars_ in your hands.

“There’s more where that came from,” he says, leaning and nudging you with his shoulder. All you can do is just… _shake your head._ This isn’t real. There’s no way.  


You hand off Karen’s share to her and marvel at Arthur’s; when you turn, moving to hand it back to him, he simply waves you off. You blink.

“Keep it.”  


“… What?”  


“Yea, well,” he chirps, swigging his drink, “I was gunna give y’ some a’ my share anyways –”  


Your heart hammers at the prospect of him already having considered _giving_ you part of his share. The fact you’re on the fore-front of Arthur Morgan’s mind, even in the midst of a bank heist, leaves you even _more_ stupefied than before.

“Can’t have y’ stealin’ more journals, y’know?”  


“That… this is…” you gawk at him, face blooming into a ridiculously big smile is worth more than any of the money in the world to him, “ _Arthur!”_  


“Look at her!” it’s Uncle who exclaims it, “Even the rich lady is impressed with us simpletons!”  


The laughter that seizes the group is full and honest and you can hardly keep your hands from shaking at the awe of it all. You are… amazed. There’s no other way to describe the feeling that sweeps you entirely – back home, you’d be surrounded by women in high-collars mocking the headline of the bank robbery. It would be a topic over brunch, something snobbed about for hours.

“How much?” you ask, leaning and catching Arthur’s arm, “How much did you get away with?”  


Blue eyes dart to your face. He can’t hide the smile that worms it’s way onto his mouth. Arthur laughs into his whiskey.

“Twenty-thousand.”  


“… _Twenty-thousand?!”_  


He peels into loud laughter, along with the rest of the gang as you spring up, hand slapped over your mouth. You… this… _oh_ _my_ _god_.

“I need a drink.”  


Arthur perks up, watching as Mary-Beth and Tilly pass you a bit of the brandy they’ve been sipping on – you take a glass with hearty thanks, settling back down on the log beside Arthur. You can hardly speak, really, just busy thinking about the _heroics_ it must take to rob a whole bank of $20,000.

Your gaze falls to Arthur and the light of the fire dancing across his face.

You sip the brandy.

You sputter, cough, then gag.

“ _Eugh!_ ”  


“And th’ lady finds she hasn’t yet aquired th’ taste of _fine alcohol!”_ Arthur chirps, hand clapping your knee, “Don’t worry – it goes down smoother after the first glass.”  


And boy, does it.

And after the _fifth_ , you’re sipping it like _water._

Arthur has stopped his own merriment for the time being, settled on the easy glow of a drink or two as you inch closer and closer and closer to him with each swigged drink.

There’s a sense of protectiveness that washes over him. He knows that you’re _new_ to this tougher way of life, new to drink and gamble and merriment and _robbery._ So, he keeps a careful eye on you through the night, handing you some of his canteen and a few biscuits all the while.

As the fire begins to die (but, not the party – no, you’ve successfully kept the lot going. If you can keep up, well, no one has an excuse to let up), you’ve finally wound up in Arthur’s lap – one arm is draped around his shoulders and the other planted firmly above his heart.

(He’d been grateful when you’d finally plopped yourself there. After nearly falling off the log three times, this way he could make sure you wouldn’t crack your head open… and admire the openness with which you _touch him.)_

Talk has began to lull about, stories being wound around the fire. Javier talks about home, Charles talks about his mother’s tribe, Mary-Beth talks about the most recent book she’s read. Gang politics fleet about, for a moment, on the lips of Arthur and Hosea and Dutch.

All the while, you’re settled in Arthur’s lap.

You are a sight for the whole camp to see, staring at Arthur Morgan like he’s the sun to your stars. It paints him all sorts of colors humble; his hold on you is respectful.

He ducks a hand to your thigh, patting you.

“How y’ holdin’ up, Miss High-Society?” it’s gentle.

It’s late now – a good number of the camp has wandered off to bed, save for you, Arthur, Bill, Lenny, Javier, and the girls.

“I’m… _hm_ ,” you shrug, blinking at him with a hazy look. Your faces are so close, your noses nearly brush. Arthur’s eyes dart to your lips as you speak on instinct, “I suppose – _drunk.”_

That riles a wave of laughter from the group.   


“First time?” Karen cheeps.  


You nod, adjusting in Arthur’s lap and pulling your arm from his shoulders. You play with the glass in your hands. He catches his breath with the distance.

“I was never allowed t’ do things like _this_ – party and laugh and have _fun_ ,” you slur, “It was all… straight-back chars and piano fingers and this fork and that spoon and la-la-la. So, I dunno – this… This is nice.”

“ _Piano fingers?”_ Tilly questions.  


Arthur laughs at that, bouncing his knee a bit. You giggle.

“Oh, did I not share? Our lovely Miss Turner can _sing_ and _tickle th’ ivories.”_

You swat at his chest. “Shut up.”

He laughs. His thumb moves to draw a lazy circle on your hip. You can feel it through your dress. Everyone dissolves into hazy chatter but all you can _feel_ is Arthur’s thumb. It’s hot and leaves a trail and it’s _distracting._ You blink at him, eyes stuck on the way his features look _soft_ in the flickering light of the fire. He looks _happy._

God, you have it bad.

_ “Earth t’ Miss Turner –”  
_

You blink.

Arthur notes your distraction.

“I said, _why_? Y’know,” Karen drawls, waving her drink, “Why make you some… pretty little parlor piece? What’s the _point?”_  


_“_ To catch a good husband,” you grumble, “Or, well, wait for your parents to marry you off t’ one. That way you can be _his_ pretty little parlor piece.”  


“That’s horrible.”  


“Mm,” you sip your brandy, swallowing the rest down, “But, I learned how to play piano, so that’s somethin’.”  


“You any good?” Javier asks, eyes bright at the mention of music. His guitar sits in his lap, “With the singing, too?”  


“Yea,” Lenny urges, “Sing us somethin’, Miss Turner.”

You laugh, jaw falling open as you shake your head and dodge the requests. “No, no – I think m’ a bit too drunk to even remember any words now, let alone a tune.”

“Can’t be any worse than Arthur –”  


Bill snorts. Arthur shoves the man while balancing you.

“You sing?” you ask, eyes brightening at the man in question as you joke, “Be still my beatin’ heart.”  


“Oh, shut it,” Arthur chirps, thumb going back to it’s _modest_ ministrations. It’s a strategic tactic. You lurch in his lap, “I am a _shit_ singer. We all know that. No need t’ rub it in. Now, Miss High-Society, I think it’s about time you drank some _water.”_  


A pout.

“ _Up_ ,” he pats your knee, “And the lot of you – It’s late. When morning comes, we’ll all start feelin’ sorry fer ourselves if we keep this up.”  


There’s a murmur through the group of protest and agreement, mingling to become one consensus that it _is_ time for bed. With the $20k take-away from the day, there will be plenty of celebrating left to do in the morning, though, and you say goodnight to the lot with a slur over your words.

“M’ fine, m’fine.”  


Arthur is there, though, giving you something to hold onto.

His _hand_ , more specifically.

Ever the gentleman.

“C’mon, _princess_ ,” he jokes, beginning to help you up and lead you towards your tent with a guiding hand, “You’re gunna have one rough mornin’ if you don’t get to bed now –”  


“Y’ didn’t have t’ give me some a’ yer share y’know –”  


You stand and the last of your drink hits you like a train. Suddenly, it’s a bit harder to think. One step, and another, and the world spins.

“Oh –”  


Arthur feels horrible when you hit the ground and he isn’t quick enough catch you.


	12. Musings, enter Arthur.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: “Suddenly locked knee deep in a fantasy he didn’t even know he yearned for” So, tell me about this fantasy of yours (pls this is addictive)

It’s second nature – to _yearn,_ to _dream,_ to _fantasize._

Arthur Morgan gets caught in the fantasy; caught in the slow-burn of romantic figments dancing behind his eyelids like firelight as he drifts off to sleep under the sun. It _hurts_ how much he wants it, how much he wants the security of _you;_ he’d happily rip his own heart from his chest only to hand it over – his thrumming heart in your hands, forever yours. 

It terrifies him, these notions – Arthur settles that you are a carnivorousness sort of disease, picking him apart, bone by bone, and plucking his heart-strings like a harp. 

He’s love-sick.

If Eve is born from the rib of Adam, you’re born from the fire and whiskey in his belly – you’re a pointed sort of sophistication personified. You are quick and bright and move like sunlight through the leaves in the trees on a summer day.

He basks in your shade, sweats in your warmth. Like a damn sinner in church.

Arthur shifts, pulling his hat farther down his face. He crosses long legs, a sigh settling out of his lungs as he tries to push the thought of you away – it’s easier said than done. Yearning and dreaming and fantasizing comes as easy as breathing to him, now. Against a tree on the far edge of camp, he tries to grapple with it, to settle on the fact that this how he’ll die:

Terminally love-sick for a girl who smiles like sunshine. 

(A darker part of him wonders if that smile of yours would still shine bright in the shadows of his tent late at night, if that smile would pull the life out of him in the tangle of the more feverish parts of love-sickness, if you’d say his name like a honey-drip, soothing the ache in his bones with a needy touch.)

You’re a damn fool, Arthur Morgan.

A love-sick fool.


	13. Shooting lessons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Arthur teaching miss turner how to shoot. lots of physical contact. please this has been on my brain all day

“I dunno about this, Arthur.”

After the robbery in Valentine, Dutch urges everyone to lay low for a week – long enough for the law to snuff out and long enough for the stacks of money to be put somewhere safe. Seven days of silence should be plenty to keep them on-top of the game and out of the grip of the folks looking for them.  


Seven days of nothing, more like it.

No trips, no heists, no nothing – just a whole lot of heat, complaining and chores. 

So, you’re bounding with excitement when Arthur approaches you one evening, cocking back the hammer on his bolt action rifle and asking Miss Grimshaw if he can steal you away for a bit. 

“M’ takin’ her shootin’,” Arthur says to Bill as you both wander out to the far side of camp, “So don’t come runnin’ when you hear the shots, got it?”

The sun, still high in the sky for the later hour, has started to cool the land by now – even in your lightest chemise and cotton skirt, you’d been drenched in sweat all day – so you’re beyond excited to just… _walk_ and feel the breeze that seems more prevalent in the surrounding woods than at camp. 

Arthur’s not far off, sleeves rolled up high on his forearms and hat abandoned back in his tent. The pink glow along his cheeks and nose call to the chores he’d been doing all day – hauling hay and seed and water pails back and forth for hours at a time in the sun. 

(You’d been caught watching _twice_ by Mary-Beth, much to your dismay.)

And now, here you are, measuring the weight of a revolver as Arthur swings his rifle over his back and drops a hand to his belt. The other drags the last of his cigarette from his lips, dropping it to the wet ground and stomping it out.

“Ah, yer alrigh’. Jus’… get used t’ the weight,” he says patiently, stepping closer and nudging your shoulder with his own. He pulls another from his holster, turning it over in his hand and demonstrating where your fingers fall, “Hold it like this.”  


You watch, blinking down at his calloused hands, and try and mimic the same hold yourself. The pistol fits oddly in your own hands; you have hands meant more for sewing and piano than gun-slinging. In Arthur’s, it’s like second nature.

“Remind me why we’re doing this…?” you mutter, pulling your lip between your teeth as you try and hold it right.  


“Because,” Arthur says warmly, dropping his pistol back into his holster and moving to manually pluck at your fingers, moving them into the right places. It feels better already. He leans in, brows raised and eyes amused, “ _I_ may not always be around t’ _protect_ you, Miss High-Society.”  


“How kind of you.”  


You roll your eyes and Arthur barks out a bit of laughter. It’s softer, lacking his usual dosage of bitterness. He crosses his arms again, moving to prop his boot up on a fallen log. The outlaw gives a little shrug, letting his head loll to the side as you turn to admiring the pistol again.

“M’ serious,” he drawls, “I want you t’ be safe – an’ that means you gotta learn how t’ protect yerself, especially if yer stickin’ around.”  


"Where on Earth do you think I would go?” you ask honestly, eyes catching him with a curious look, “Timbuktu?”

Arthur shrugs again – this time that fleeting feeling of hopelessness crawls into his chest, burrowing deep into a home it’s already made. He searches for the right words for a beat… Then, exhales long and hard. He throws his hands, moving to toe at the stump’s roots. 

“I dunno, back t’ yer high-society ways?”

“Arthur,” you urge gently, “I’m past that.”  


He blinks up at you, scratching at the stubble along his cheek. Your expression is set in sincerity, one that he wants so desperately to trust – but that biting, nagging, hollow feeling (the one that always lasts longer than the promises) doesn’t let him.

"If I _wanted_ to go back home,” you say, moving to step closer among the underbrush, “I would have left with Jenny… you know that, right?”

A nod of his head. “I know – guess I can’t trust easily is all.”  


You watch his face for a moment, watching the way his eyes get a little sad and his gaze drops again. Arthur chews the inside of his cheek, leaving you to anchor yourself in his silence. You wonder, bitterly, if all these walls were built by the same woman he mentioned all those nights ago – the one who’d left him for something better, only to crawl on back. You wonder if Arthur Morgan, before all this, _did_ trust easy – if loved hard and true without the kick back.

It makes you angry. 

“I hope someday,” you say finally, prodding at his chest, “you _will_ trust me when I say I’m stayin’ for the long haul… Not today, not tomorrow, but… when you’re _ready_ , Mr. Morgan.”  


Like a wild horse, he calms – and comes right back to you.

He smiles, nudging your shoulder gently with his own before swinging his finger in the direction of the crumbling wall by the lakeside. He skirts around the topic at hand, a sore subject no doubt, in favor of the bottles lined up along the stones – tall ones and round ones and skinny ones. 

"In th’ meantime –” he calls out, “M’ gonna teach you how t’ shoot.”  


In half a blink, he’s pulled his pistol from his holster, cocked the hammer back and pulled the trigger, sending the nearest bottle to the end off in an explosion of glass. The sound echoes through the trees of the lakeside forest, scaring the ever loving _daylights_ out of you as you yelp and jump in the air. 

It’s pure showmanship.  


“Show off.”  


Arthur laughs, flourishing a bit as he drops his pistol back in it’s holster. He steps forward then, pointing at a spot next to him a few paces. Shaking your head, you step up reluctantly, still gingerly holding the pistol the same way he’d moved your fingers to. 

“C’mon, then,” he waves, “Aim.”  


You raise your arm.

Immediately, his hand is on your shoulder.

(You suddenly remember the slip of his thumb against your hip-bone the other night at the fire. You remember the burning trail it had left, sparking a wildfire that engulfed you entirely from a touch innocent and honest. This burns just as much, if not worse, without the slickness of brandy to make it seem _accidental._ )

The hold is gentle as he steps around you, guiding your posture into one that’s upright and confident. For a man who robs and kills, he is nearly _delicate_ with his touch – not that it isn’t calculated in every way.   


In fact, Arthur is overthinking it. 

“You, uh,” he rumbles, “You wanna feel _solid_. Stand yer ground.”  


You exhale, trying to relieve some of the tension that builds in your shoulders as his hand passes the expanse of your upper-back – he lays his hand flat there, right in the center, and the warmth of the gesture nearly swallows you whole. 

It feels safe. Protective.

You try to think about something else – _his hold_ is distracting. If you’re about to make an idiot of yourself with shooting, you’d rather keep it at that and not give away just how desperately you treasure every touch Arthur Morgan spares you. It’s unfair how easily he’s got you under his spell.

“Solid,” you repeat, shuffling a bit, “ _Right_.”  


“Watch your feet – you don’t want ‘em too close.”  


Arthur toes the inside of your foot with his boot, one hand falling to your other shoulder as he balances. You obey the request by widening your stance, arm still raised and pistol pointed in the direction of the bottles. You give a shaky exhale.

Arthur swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, as the evening heat is replaced with a different kind – the kind of a lovesick fool staring straight into the sun. The closeness… he hadn’t anticipated it, but it feels natural to stand so close and direct you in a way that’s more – _hands on._

“How’s this?”  


Arthur steps back for a moment, gaze fleeting up and down your stance.

Nervously, he clears his throat. “You, uh, wanna aim with yer hips.”

You blink.

A moment passes.

“My… _hips_?”  


“You know –”  


He twists his hips, leaning back and giving his knees a bit of a bounce. He’s _trying_ to demonstrate it – to show the movement guided by the pelvis. You, on the other hand, are so _damn_ confused it’s all that shows on your face. Your shoulders sag and you drop your aim, nose wrinkling as you try to understand the _point_ of his weird little wiggling.

“Arthur, that’s –” you blanch, “I don’t get it,”  


He hauls a tortured, painful sigh before stepping back into your orbit, knowing damn well that this will be it – this will be the way his heart gives out and he dies. Not happily, but sexually frustrated and terribly foolish.

“Remember the stance.”  


You go back to your poised aim, feet apart, stance solid.

And then, without warning, Arthur Morgan takes your hips in his hands and turns them.

Now, the motion itself is small and respectable and genteel in every way. His hold is not rough, nor crude nor demanding – and his hands don’t wander, don’t grope nor grab. He is, as he always is, a gentleman about the gesture. 

You wish, suddenly, that he’d hurry up and be _less_ of a gentleman about the gesture. 

(Arthur wishes the same – wishes he could spin you about and kiss you breathless. He wishes he could drag you to the ground and litter love-bites along the exposed curve of your throat – everyone would know your his, then. He wishes, _desperately,_ to trust that you won’t break his old, weary heart into a thousand pieces with one well-spoken sigh of his name.)

The thought races in and out your gut like a passing bullet and it leaves your heart on fire and knees wobbly. Years of practiced modesty and tided wants rush to the surface, ready to break free, but it’s _fear_ that pushes them back down – a new found sense of _want_ blooms at the heat of his touch, however, and you offer a single peep in response to the touch:

” _Oh_.”

Arthur is locked in your personal space at the sound, hands steady on the rise of your hips as you exhale and lean – your back finds his chest and he can only stare ahead, mouth gone dry at the _burning_ connection made between you both. 

A breeze passes by you both. Another breath. He nods. You’re trying to focus, just like him, on the task at hand. 

“Just like that.”  


He can see your eyes dart to him for a second. 

He wishes he wasn’t such a damn coward.

(He curses Mary Linton, then – curses her for betraying his love, for shattering his trust. May his resolve and naivete rest in piece, at the bottom of Heartbreak Bay.)

“When you think you’ve got th’ bottle lined up in th’ sight,” he says slower than he means to, “Pull back the hammer –”  


You do as he says, thumb pulling it back.

“An’ pull the trigger.”  


You fire on an exhale.

A bottle shatters in the night air.

Your jaw drops in shock, spinning on a heel to blink back and forth between the bottle and Arthur – and then you _laugh,_ high and true and wonderful and Arthur Morgan prays you’ll be the end of him.

_You_ would be a good death.


	14. Honey bunches.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon sent the prompt: “eyes them up and down.” For Arthur

Dutch had asked you, a few nights ago, what you’d do if he needed your help.

It must have been some sort of a _test_ – a tactic to see where your allegiances and confidences lay – and you must have _passed_ , because it’s with vigor and trust that he approaches you again a week later with a buttered look and a need for a favor.

Arthur doesn’t trust it – doesn’t want you _involved_ in this scheme he’s cookin’ up. Dutch is firing from the hip more and more now-a-days and the outlaw would be damned if he just _let_ the gang leader drag you into the thick of the firefight. 

“No, no, no –” Arthur berates, stepping between you and his father-figure with raised hands, “Keep ‘er out of it, Dutch –”  


“Oh, do not worry, my boy,” Dutch laughs, “You’re _going with.”_  


Damn dress up games.

_You_ are enjoying this. If this is what helping Dutch is like, you silently hope the leader asks you for more favors. Playing “ _high society_ style consultant” for your “ _new husband,_ Arthur Callahan” is an awfully fun game to be playing.

(If you two can blend in to the high and dandy lifestyle playing out on the rooftop bars of Saint Denis, you can distract from the robbing going on right under their well-curled mustaches. And, so, you set out to get Arthur something that fits and something that suits _Mr. Callahan, Inheritance to the Callahan Steel Fortune_.)

You look the picture – hair done up in fancy plaits, posture reeled in by the tight curve of your corset. You’re _beautiful,_ really, in an emerald and white ensemble that’s one you used to wear back home. It had been sitting in a trunk the Van der Linde’s had heisted from your family’s carriage all those months ago.

The neckline of your dress dips low, dragging the eye to an expensive piece of jewelry borrowed from Miss Molly O’Shea – it sits neatly along your décolletage and, that, _among_ _other_ _views_ keeps catching the eye of the tailor. 

You seem every bit high-society that Arthur jokes.

You fiddle with the lace hems of your sleeves, tilting your head as Arthur clears his throat _again_ and eyes the tailor beside you with a nasty look in the mirror.

Arthur shifts, standing – uncomfortable and miserable – before a set of three mirrors. 

The shirt he has on it stark white and stratchy; but it fits him well thanks to the pins the tailor had nearly _stabbed_ him with. It’s tight in the right areas; around his slim waist, the curve of his biceps, the broad expanse of his shoulders…

And the dress pants make his legs look miles long. The wingtip shoes on each foot are sharp and made from fine Italian leather. 

All in all, he looks nothing like an outlaw, a thief, a highwayman. He _looks_ like the sort of man your parents would have _jumped_ to set you up with – _rich._

You hum. He watches as you look him up and down over his shoulder. 

You play the part of doting wife _very_ well.

Arthur’s face is hot. He’s embarrassed. _This…_ This is _embarrassing._

(As if if he wasn’t self conscious before –)

“I think my sweetie-pie looks rather dashing,” you purr, finally, catching the tailor mid-stare at your cleavage. A wonderful trick – give them something to admire, play it demure, and he’d never suspect you of snagging the money clip hanging from his back pocket, “Don’t _you_ , sir?”  


You blink up at the older man with an innocent look.

Arthur watches as you slip the bills into your sleeve, tucking it away. He barks a quiet laugh to himself. Right under the guy’s nose.

_ You’re learning. _

“Er,” he coughs, “Yes, Miss Callahan, _quite_ – may I suggest a suit coat to finish the outfit off?”

You clap, cooing loudly and rushing to Arthur’s side by the mirror. “I think a suit coat would be wonderful, don’t you, _muffin?_ ”

_God, he hates that._ You can _see it_ all over his face and it’s _well worth_ the fool you’re making of yourself. Right now, you could get away with murder and the lawmen would give you the key to the jail. You’re on top of the world. 

Arthur grits his teeth, faking a smile the whole way. “You better be splittin’ that grab with me, _munchkin_ , these shoes are _expensive.”_

Your smile never falters, hands moving to smooth down the collar along his neck with doting touches. “Oh, _honey_ - _bear_ , don’t worry – this is _my treat_.”

Arthur laughs with masked malice, shaking his head with gritted teeth. “Ho, ho, a _treat –_ you _little_ –”

“The sport coat, my lady!”


	15. Drink, drank, drunk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: When miss turner takes a drunk Arthur home from drinking it take them double the time to get there from all his non stop flirting

“Tha’s my _girl!”_  


“ _Arthur –”_

He’s yelling, staggering into your arms as the girls flood in behind you, here to gather the drunks – Lenny and Bill descend into their own sloshed laughter at their table in the Valentine Saloon at the sight of their beloved enforcer going soft.

Arthur, rushing to hold your face in his big ol’ hands, is rosy cheeked and glowing with the brightest, _drunkest_ smile you’ve ever seen. 

“Yer here!”  


It’s… _wonderful._

I mean, except that he reeks like whiskey.

“Arthur, it’s time t’ go home –”  


“Yooo _ooouuuu –”_ he cheeps, leaning back on his heels and you rush to break from his hold and catch him with a strong arm, “You, an’ _meeeee –_ m’Arthur, nice t’ meet y’– we… Listen, _listen,_ I _think_ – I think we should jus’ get _married_ already, y’know – Show ‘em all how… how _pretty_ you’d look inna dress.”  


“In… In a dress.”  


“Yep.”  


He pops the ‘p’.

“Arthur,” you snort, watching as he snatches up your hand and squeezes it tightly, “I’m _already_ wearing a dress.”

His jaw falls open. He looks over you like it’s the first time he’s ever seeing you. It’s… oh _god,_ he’s not going to remember any of this in the morning. You and the girls been gone for an hour at the grocery and… how many rounds did they manage to fit in between then and now?

“Well, would y’ _look_ at that! Lenny! Look!” he hollers across the saloon, “She’s wearin’ a dress.”  


Another blink.

Arthur turns back around, moving to brace himself on the bar top. His posture slouches, brows quirking in a way you can really only describe as… _flirtatious._ His voice drops an octave, low and rumbling, and he leans as he tosses out a:

_ “… How ‘bout I take it off?”  
_

All in all, it might have been a successful line…

Had his elbow not missed the bar and sent him face-planting into the floor.

_ Oh, this is going to be a long night. _


	16. Fly trap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon mused: I can totally envision miss Turner going into town with Arthur and having some high-class tycoon type hit on her and before Arthur can step in and kick some rich ass Miss Turner takes care of it by putting the man in his place with some serious upper-class dictionary and everyone is kinda ???? bc not only did they not understand her but they thought she was more damsel-in-distress type and then she just struts on past like "if you don't shut your mouth Mr. Morgan you're gonna catch some flies."

“My, my – you, are… You are truly _exquisite_ , mademoiselle.”

Despite the fact that you’re _flanked_ by Van der Linde men, this is the third time you’ve been approached in twenty _goddamn_ minutes by well-to-do dandies wearing expensive threads and sipping over-priced liquor.   


The Saint Denis Saloon is a breeding ground for high-brow politics and weak-chinned inheritances – and it’s bustling tonight, flooded satin wall to satin wall with businessmen, lawyers, degenerates… and _this asshole_ who’s dragged you from comfortable conversation with Arthur via compliment and touch.

He bends, snatching your hand. The man’s friends look on as he kisses the skin there. 

Like wolves on a hunt.

You pull a generous laugh at the compliment and gesture, spurring Arthur to grit his teeth and tighten his hold on his whiskey. Jealousy paints him every shade of emerald at the attention this stranger gets – beside the outlaw, Hosea pats his back, as if to say _she’s only being polite._

“Thank you, sir.”  


There’s a wave of mutters that passes through the group before the man finally pulls his eyes from you. Quickly, he tosses a glance to his compatriots while groveling out a flourished chuckle:

_“Elle est assez belle à regarder, n'est-ce pas? J'adorerais la voir se pencher pour dire mon nom.“_   


Laughter bounces between the men and you feel a laugh rush from your chest quicker than you can catch it. A biting sort of anger slips on your face as you turn fully from the bar, stepping a bit closer to the man in question. Your eyes dart across his face – he’s radiating smugness. 

“Gentlemen,” you laugh, face falling so fast it’s like braking a freight train. All jest lost, “I would say… you’re all awfully lucky my friends here don’t speak French. _”_  


It’s then that Van der Linde men turn to eye the unfolding situation. Arthur, Hosea, Charles, Lenny – an intimidating lot.

The stranger’s face pales.

_“Sors avant que mon ami coupe tes couilles,”_ youbark, _“_ Got it?”

You’re no lamb, no prey to be preyed upon.

Arthur Morgan is slack jawed beside you. The outlaw leans back, elbows lifting from the bar to turn and watch the group flee quickly as they can, weaving through the Saloon like termites a plank of wood. Blue eyes blink between you, now turning back happily to your cocktail, and the dispersed dandies. 

He squints. “Th’ hell was all that?”

A shrug. “They were rude –”

“They weren’t speakin’ _English_ –”  


“Yea –”  


“And _neither,”_ he chirps, voice splitting into a disbelieving laugh, “were you. Where the hell did you learn that?”  


You snort into your drink, swallowing as he shakes his head. “Learn _what?_ French?”

“ _Yeah!”_  


_“School!”_ you peel into a high laugh, “With math ‘n’ finance ‘n’ cursive – Christ, Arthur, close your mouth, you’re gonna catch flies.”  


“ _Hon, hon, hon,”_ he sips his whiskey, blinking down at you with an affectionate gaze, “Well, what’d they say tha’ got you so pissed off?”

“Somethin’ about bendin’ me over, no dress, I don’t know, I only caught bits –” 

Arthur spits his drink out.

He’s out the door, a hunter looking to skin some wolves, before you can stop him.


	17. Lost things found again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: I feel like Arthur would take Miss Turner into town to shop and then accidentally loose her for like an hour and then p a n i c until she comes back and he has to act like he totally wasn’t just having a heart attack

He forgets, sometimes, that he’s a wanted man and you’re a missing woman, both of you being doggishly searched for across three states with rewards tallying up to thousands of dollars. 

Going out – going shopping – can be dangerous. If either of you are caught… well, you’ll be sent home and Arthur will be sent to hang.

Both are miserable deaths.

You make it easy to forget that bit, honestly – you don’t treat him like _being an outlaw_ is his only personality trait, like he’s some rabid dog on a chain looking to tear out the next throat that comes his way. You _know_ he’s witty, emotionally sensitive and caring. Maybe all those are buried deep beneath layers of dirt, trauma, and distrust, sure, but they’re there. It’s everything – the ruggedness and, in tandem, the kindness, that make him the man he is.

You quite like that man. And he quite likes you. 

It’s unspoken.

He’s stopped on the corner of Emerald and Peak, talking to a woman looking for donations for an orphanage, when he loses track of you. Upon realizing you’re not at his side…

Fear rushes up on him so fast he can hardly speak.

His head swivels, eyes wild – you’re no-where to be seen. Arthur Morgan spends the next minute dissolving into absolute panic. It’s all encompassing, a bit like drowning, and a sense of failure creeps into his throat as he begins to run from shop to shop down the strip; his eyes are wild, jumping to any woman in a blue dress similar to yours.

Grabbed by Raiders, by Robbins’ men, by some _stranger –_

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, strides wide and fast as he tears through the downtown of Saint Denis, “ _Miss Turner!”_

_ Keep it together, Arthur, breathe – _

“‘Scuze me, have you seen a woman – blue dress, about this tall? No, I – alrigh’, fuck you too, mister – _MISS TURNER!”_  


Inside the candy shoppe, your head snaps to spot the source of the sound.

The cashier blinks.

There’s a man running around on the trolly tracks.

“Oh my –”  


You throw down a dollar, quickly exiting the shop and crossing the street in a near jog – the relief that floods into Arthur’s frame is nearly comical when you call his name. He drops his hands from his mouth. They hit his knees and he bends over in the side of the street, out of breath and out of panic.

“Calm down!” you urge, “You’re gonna get hit by the damn trolly –”

“Christ, I thought I lost you –”

“I was _shopping –”_  


_“I turned around,”_ he heaves, “An’ you were gone!”  


Suddenly, you lean back and cross your arms. “… Were you worried, Mr. Morgan? That Mr. Robbins came and _snatched me away?”_

Arthur just shakes his head, jabbing his finger in the air. “Don’t… Don’t _joke.”_

You laugh, patting his back as he finally catches his breath and digging through the paper bag the cashier at the candy store had handed you. Politely, you offer a piece of taffy before remarking a sweet: “For your trouble.”

He snatches it. “Don’t go runnin’ off on me again –”

“You were busy,” you chide, falling in step with him as he begins to head back to where Sugarcube is hitched, “getting _flirted with_ by that _lovely_ lady working with the orphans –”  


Arthur blinks at you, a tit-for-tat. “… Were you _jealous –”_

You roll your eyes as Arthur descends into a raucous bought of laughter. He shakes his head all the while, moving to pop his taffy into his mouth and toss the wrapper over his shoulder. 

“You,” he says fondly, “are one hell of a woman, Miss Turner.”  


“And _you,”_ you nudge him, “Are an idiot – you know I can handle myself, right?”  


“I’ll believe it when I see it.”


	18. He believed it because he saw it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: After that last blurb, you should totally write Ms. Turner saving Arthur’s skin?? Like maybe Arthur is in trouble and Ms. Turner puts her newfound shooting skills to the test and clips someone???

Lemoyne Raiders.

Incredible pains in the ass. They ride like a pack, descending on travelers beating the red-clay roads of Scarlett Meadow County. It is, to them, their world to be owned, their harvest to be reaped. It’s like the war never ended to them – and you’re genuinely impressed with how _little_ it takes for the shooting to start.

Your hold on Arthur’s waist tightens as Sugarcube kicks back on her hooves, huffing with surprise at the sudden blocking of the road by a decrepit carriage. Arthur gives a yank of the reigns, pulling her in a circle as she slows down and whinnies in annoyance – he coos at her, voice low.

“Easy, girl.”  


She clops her hooves in anger as two men hop from the carriage.

“Hey there, _yanks_ –”  


“There’s a _toll_ t’ pass this road.”  


You’re being robbed.

Arthur Morgan is fed up with these assholes. _Fed up._ Plain and simple. For weeks, he’s been riding back and forth between the camp at Clemens Point and Rhodes and _every single damn time,_ he’s been hassled by these back-water idiots touting Civil War uniforms and less-than civil mindsets. 

Typically, he’d be shooting by now. 

But, you’re on the saddle behind him. He has, recently, made a promise to himself to keep you out of such things – away from the violence and hustle of the life you’ve decided to stick with. It’s mostly to save face, mostly to keep you from thinking he’s some sort of monster. 

You are, however, explicitly aware of the wheelings and dealings of the Van der Linde Gang – it’s _inescapable,_ really. The camp _feeds_ off the stories of robberies, heists and shoot-outs. You’re… well, you’re just proud the strong-man of the gang is sweet on _you._

_ Lead enforcer, Arthur Morgan.  _

No simple man to be trifled with.

“Listen, fellers,” the aforementioned lead enforcer grits, “I don’t want any trouble –”  


“Five dollars,” chirps the raider, leering towards you both, “an’ you an’ yer pretty lil’ lady can have a _lovely_ time _livin’_.”  


“Or… we shoot you,” the other contends, “An’ have ourselves a lovely time with yer lady _instead_.”  


Arthur’s lip snarls. 

“… Y’know,” a laugh, “That sounds _better –”_  


Suddenly, the bolt action rifles are raised – they’re trained right on Arthur’s chest, leaving him to drop the reigns and raise his hands in quiet surrender. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that…”

With one well aimed jab of the ribs, Sugarcube rears up high, kicking one of the raiders square in the head and sending the other to the ground – with a clatter, he gets the wind and the bolt-action rifle knocked from him. The lone raider scrambles in the dirt as Arthur hops from his horse.

“I didn’t wanna do this, mister, not infront a’ my girl –”  


It’s almost too late when Arthur sees the pistol being pulled from the remaining man’s jacket.

A single shot rings out and the outlaw winces, half expecting _this_ to be the time he takes one… but… nothing. No impact, no pain, no _inevitable, cold death._ Patting his vest, Arthur comes to find he’s very _alive_. And – well, the raider at his feet is very dead.

Blue eyes blink back at you, his torso swiveling as his boots dance in the dirt.

You’re serving him a look sitting side-saddle, irritated. You are a _picture_ of beauty with your flowing dress and your neat braid and your _poise_ – a _lady_ of high-refinery and manners and sweetness. 

A lady with a pistol from Sugarcube’s saddle bag in your hands. 

“What were you gonna _do_ , wrestle with ‘im?”

And _that_ was the first time Arthur Morgan ever realized he was completely and _hopelessly_ in love with you.


	19. Heart-shaped bullet wounds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Let 👏 them 👏 hold 👏 hands 👏

Arthur Morgan is shot in the chest outside of Rhodes in the early hours of Sunday morning. 

“You have something of ours!” the gun-man had yelled over the cirtine burn of lanterns. His face, in the lick of the flames, seemed to be carved from ivory bone as if he’d been called on by the Grim Reaper himself.

The glint of a muzzle flash in the night is like the high swing of a scythe. 

One round, through the chest. 

The ground rushes up to meet Arthur Morgan as darkness swallows him whole.

_ “Waylon Robbins sends his regards!”  
_

It’s Micah, out of all the men on this god given Earth, who saves Arthur’s life – who hauls him from the ground as he bleeds like a pig. Hellbent, Micah tears through the swamps back to camp at Clemens Point, hooves hot from a firefight that ends with five dead rifle-man and many an uttered prayer.

“Stay alive, Morgan!” he seethes, “Don’t you die on me!”  


To Arthur, the ground rushes by in inky trails of a blur. Every jostle, every shot, every turn – He is stuck in the vice grip of vertigo; it’s dragging him down to the bottom of the ocean and back to the surface again and again and again and he can’t _breathe_ and then he _can_ and then _he’s choking_. Arthur is ten again, learning to swim and drowning in the lake out by his Ma’s house – he’s gasping, like a fish out of water, when Micah tears into camp screaming like a banshee. 

_ “DUTCH – HOSEA – GET OUT HERE!”  
_

It’s like a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The camp descends into chaos in one single beat of a breath – it takes three men to haul Arthur off the back of Micah’s horse; they carry him into his tent and his limbs are slack and you have the holy composure stripped from you by the cold claws of death. You see him, in one passing glance; he’s wide-eyed, trying _desperately_ to breathe and you smother a terrified scream as his tent flap closes and tears your from the sight.

Blood leaves a trail to his tent, like a calling card to the beyond.

It’s Grimshaw and Abigail who run into the gore and violence and atrocity – arms full of gauze and rum and medical supplies. You’re stuck there, in the middle of camp as the world turns around you, violently sick with grief and worry.

It takes two hours for the storm to pass.

His tent falls quiet, finally as the morning sun creeps over the East.

No labored breaths, no coughing, no screaming. Just… _quiet_.

Hosea’s hand touches your shoulder, suddenly – it’s caked with blood and weathered from the cause. He moves, stepping over the log you’d settled on by the main camp with the rest of the Van der Linde gang. In the center, a fire has burnt out. 

No one has stoked it. It’s only ash and cinder.   


No one says a word. Eyes only turn to rest on Hosea.

His shirt is seeped in a terrible, horrible, dark red.

“He’s alive,” Hosea croaks, “But, barely.”  


You cry, then, open weeps that are nursed from relief – you can hardly keep them down, hands winding in Hosea’s grip as he hushes you with delicate words of reassurance. You hardly believe it. The words don’t sound right in your mouth. They taste bitter.

“He’s _alive?_ ”

“He is,” Hosea whispers, “He is… He… He asked for you, my girl –”

You raise your head, eyes raw.

Hosea’s voice is still as the lake. “He is in awful shape.”

_Say your goodbyes,_ his eyes say, _he may not make it to noon._

You push a hand through the opening in his tent and are greeted with the smell of near-death – metallic and gut-wrenching. There’s a pile of rags in the corner, sopped with blood, that Abigail eyes the moment you walk in.

She mutters a soft apology, hauling the basket up. 

You smother a sob.

“Be quiet, shh, it’s _alrigh’_ ,” she says gently, “He’s resting, he’s alrigh’ – He needs all he can get… Keep ‘im company, Miss Turner.”  


He looks… like a man who dodged death. A man who skirted the scythe by an inch, who nearly plunged into the River Styx head first. 

The bandage around his chest is wound tight, pristine and neatly tucked under in a knot. His head is propped up and blonde hair splays on his pillow like horns – a bull run ragged from the hunt. His bedside is littered with tonics and tinctures and _rum,_ so much _rum,_ that you’re not surprised to find him sleeping soundly.

You swipe at tears running rivers down your cheeks; damp fingers move to sooth the worry in his brow even there in his sleep. You hush him, skirts gathered in your hand as you sit by his bedside. 

Outside, the morning bird sing.

You hold Arthur Morgan’s hand. 


	20. Healing hymnal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: If miss Turner sings to him while he’s recovering I will die. He wakes up and thinks he’s in heaven because god damn that woman is an angel.

The flutter of dark eyelashes are stirred further by the gentle hymnal drifting though the open air of the tent.

Arthur Morgan realizes three things upon his long awaited and pain-bathed come to: he is alive, he is home, and you are a holy relic – a pinnacle of divine purity. Like the kiss of sea-foam on the morning shore, you are the welcomed reminder of a storm passed. 

In the fray of his bleed out, he’d wondered if he would ever see you again.

The afternoon light floods his vision when he finally musters the will to pull his eyes open. Pupils go pin-point, and Arthur’s eyes land on you, settled by the side of his bed with your nose in a book. 

What a sight for sore eyes.

With a weary smile, he listens for a moment more. The tune that reaches his ears is but a mere hum, words muddled among the melody.

_ “And the sun beams lovingly!  
Kiss sweet Marguerite for me.” _

Arthur inhales, then, noting the tightness around his ribs and the dull, dull, throbbing of a wound. In a flash, it rushes back to him – the gun-man, the ride, the _blood._

** WAYLON ROBBINS SENDS HIS REGARDS. **

It’s like the words are branded on his heart next to the bullet hole there. 

“… _Arthur.”_  


His eyes are torn from the bandages around his torso – clean ones, Abigail must have been in recently – to you; your face is flooded with a dangerous mixture of relief and affection and it hammers at his heartstrings, playing the tune of _Hearts and Flowers._

His voice is a croak.

He feels like he’s staring into the sun. 

You’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. To think… To think he nearly lost _this?_ You fall to his side like a wave lapping upon the shore. It’s natural, it’s purposeful, it’s _meant to be._

Your hand fits so neatly in his.

“Hi,” he croaks, not really sure what else to say.  


In the early afternoon sun, a solar flare creates a halo around your head. 

Arthur is so _taken_ with you – and your hand grazes the itching stubble along his jaw with a compassionate touch. The smile on your face is _grateful._ He hopes, silently prays, that this hadn’t taken a toll on you… his _falling from grace._

_“_ Hi,” you laugh softly, fingers carding through the blonde hairs by his temple, “ _Hi.”_  


He squeezes your hand. You scoop it up, pressing your lips to each knuckle.

His heart wants to protest it – to pull away and curse the gentility of it all. Those hands have _killed._ They are not washed from sin, not worthy of a touch so loving. And yet, the conviction in your eyes keeps him rooted in the moment. 

His hand turns, slipping along the curve of your jaw.

You kiss his palm.

“I’ll fetch Hosea,” you say softly, brushing the hair from his forehead, “We’ve been waitin’ for you to wake up.”  


“How long…?”  


“Three days.”  


Arthur’s eyes slip shut – in anger or annoyance or guilt, you’re not sure. But, you wring his hand for him, memorizing the weight of the warm, calloused digits in your own hold. You wonder, absentmindedly, what a wedding band would look like on his hand. 

“I’ll be right back, Arthur,” you breathe, “Give me a minute.”

“… I knew y’ could sing,” he says when you’ve pulled away. You stop mid-stride in his doorway, laughing sheepishly at the ground, “… Could I… hear some more? When y’get back?”  


“If you’re awake.”  


“I will be.”  


A sweet smile. “Anything for you, Arthur Morgan.”


	21. Faux family.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: You’ve mentioned uncle Arthur towards Jack, but consider: aunty Turner🤔Arthur melts at how tender she’s capable of being with kids

“Can I see Uncle Arthur now?”  


“I think he’d really like that, Jack.”  


When you peel back the curtain, Jack on your hip – Arthur wonders if this is something he can _have._ You and a son and a _life._ Maybe, once he’s healed up, he’ll get to work on figuring out a good thing like that. After all this business that Dutch has lined up.

After… _loyalty._

Jack has made another one of those necklaces – the braided circlets of wild flowers – and you’re wearing one proudly on-top of your head like a crown. In small, outstretched hands, Jack is clutching a matching one. 

You plop Jack down at Arthur’s feet on the cot and the outlaw grins.

“Heya, Jack.”  


“Hi Uncle Arthur.”  


“Stayin’ outta trouble?”  


Arthur sits up, then, knees bowing. He strains a bit, a pained groan coming from his throat as he tries to close the gap between him and the kid – the soreness is searing. You can see it in his shoulders. You move, wordlessly, to his side and press a hand to the small of his back. His skin is hot. 

You settle beside Arthur on the cot as Jack’s eyes go a little wide with happiness at the interaction. Since Arthur’s injury, the young Marston had been _itching_ to give Arthur a gift – a _get better_ gift.

“Yes! Uncle Hosea took me fishing –”  


“Woah!” Arthur guffaws, “Catch anything?”  


“Yeah! A little minnow.”  


Arthur puffs his chest proudly, nudging you with his elbow. “A lil’ minnow! I taught Jackie here everythin’ he knows.”

“Oh?” you laugh, eyes twinkling at the outlaw, “Really now?”  


“Yep.”  


“Say, Jack,” You lean as the younger Marston moves to crawl into your lap. As you speak, you brush a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck in passing, “Don’t you have a gift for Uncle Arthur?”

“Oh!” a little laugh, then a sheepish smile, “Yes.”  


“A gift?”  


The necklace offered in outstretched hands is matching yours – the gesture is incredibly sweet, accompanied by a light giggle from the young boy. You bloom at the way Jack seems to puff with pride when Arthur gives a deep _woooooow_ as he takes the necklace.

“Uncle Hosea said that lavender is s’pose t’ relax people,” Jack explains slowly, “An’ you gotta relax t’ get better!”  


You lean, whispering into Jack’s ear. _“An’ not walk around camp when you’re supposed t’ be in bed –”_

“– An’ not walk around the camp when you’re s’pose t’ be in bed!”  


Jack parrots it proudly, face splitting into a wonderful, gap-toothed smile.

“Y’know, Jackie,” Arthur muses as he slips it over his head, “I think – I think you might be right.”  


“Do you like it?”  


Arthur moves, hauling Jack into his arms. “I _love_ it, kid.”

“Miss Turner helped me pick th’ flowers!”  


“Did she, now?”  


Arthur spares you a lovesick look. You eat it up, hand on his arm as Jack settles in his Uncle’s lap. He looks like an _idiot,_ all bandaged up, beard growing in thick, hair wild, with a flower necklace adorning his neck. It’s… adorable.

“I did,” you confess, “I’m a fan of flowers.”  


Arthur makes a mental note and spends the rest of the afternoon with you both, reveling in the glow of faux-domesticity at the mercy of his injuries.


	22. Dinner and cheap jabs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon sent the prompt: "flirts with" for arthur askwdjsjfl please

“If I knew any better, I’d say Mr. Morgan _is loving_ all this attention.”  


You grin at Susan Grimshaw’s words, laughing a bit as you spoon a bit of tonight’s stew into a bowl balanced on your forearm. Your own is gripped in the same hand. Around the fire, warm smiles are shot your way.

You shrug.

“I guess I feel guilty,” you chirp, voice lilting into a playfully damsel-like tone as you project your voice over your shoulder in the direction of Arthur’s tent, “Poor man can hardly lift a _finger!_ My, he’d _starve_ –”  


“Careful,” John chews, “He’s gonna get _fat_. He’s already _slow_ in his _old age –”_  


_ “I can hear all y’idiots – I’m right over here, damn it!” _

The bellow from Arthur’s cot is enough to rile up laughter around the fire and send you on your way. 

You part the seams in his tent, entering the lantern-lit space with your dinner and his in your hands. He’s sitting upright, knees bent, and journal in his lap. The bandages around his chest are about due to be changed, but you figured dinner _first_ is probably best. 

“For the King.”   


You curtsy, grinning all the way.

“Ha, _ha_ ,” Arthur drawls, closing his journal, “Does tha’ make y’ the _Queen?”_  


You quirk a brow, settling on his left side in a chair Hosea had been kind enough to bring in for you when you’d been loyally _sleeping_ at Arthur’s bedside the nights following the injury. You lift your knees up, boots propped on the frame of his bed. 

Forking the venison in your bowl, you wave it around as you speak. Your tone is playful. “Why? Y’ tryna make me one?”

“Well, with you bein’ so _high society,_ I woulda guessed y’already _are_ one.”  


“Maybe I am,” you chirp, chomping on the meat, “A pretty royal lady, sittin’ on a pile of _diamonds_.”  


“An’ y’ forked over that lifestyle over fer babysitting a bed-ridden man?”  


“At least th’ view is nice,” you chirp, eyes skirting across the bare expanse of his shoulders and arms; the gesture sends Arthur’s cheeks into a rosy shade of red.

He coughs into his stew.  


“Thanks.”  


“Oh, not you,” you blink, gesturing outside the tent doorway, “I meant th’ lake.”  


Arthur’s laugh is like thunder on a warm night. 

You smile into your dinner.


	23. Bathing rituals (ruined).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon screeched: miss turner’s LEGS???? arthur SEES???? plEASE???

Bathing, really, lends itself to very little privacy at Clemens Point.

For this reason, the girls stake claim to a more covered area with minimized visibility thanks to a few thick bushes of wild berries and lilac. On the other end, the rocky shore has enough large rocks to sit, wash, and dry with relative security that no _peeping Uncle’s_ are lurking.

You’re knee deep in the water, testing the temperature, when Mary-Beth starts screaming.

You don’t have time to grab your skirt, grab your shirt – you’re so spooked you nearly jump out of your skin as you sprint from the water with Karen hot on your heels; the scream that tears itself from your throat comes out of sheer surprise and you _cling_ to Tilly once through the bushes.

“What?!” you scream, eyes darting over Mary-Beth.  


“Oh my god!”  


“ _What the_ hell?!”   


It’s Lenny who comes running. “Is everyone alrigh’ – _oh! Oh,_ I’m sorry –”

Instantly, his hands are over his eyes.

Before him are three women in varying states of undress, you _by far_ the farthest along. You’ve got only the thin top of your chemise and lace bloomers on, both _clinging_ to you from the knee-high trample you had to do to get out of the water. 

“ _Snake,”_ Mary-Beth heaves, hands on her knees, “Th’ biggest I ever saw –”  


“ _What_ in God’s name is goin’ on over here?”  


Arthur is the next to make it to the scene.

He’s not _exactly sure_ what he was expecting, but… immediately his eyes land on you and he feels like he’s been _shot in the chest, again._ This time, with something a bit more… _passionate_. 

You’re bare-footed in the grass, legs still soaked from the run to safety – the lace hem of your bloomers clings high on your thighs and Arthur sputters. His eyes immediately widen a mile as he lifts his chin and stares at the clouds. He is jarringly stopped mid-stride, swallowing thickly as he drops his hands to his waist.

_Don’t_ think about it. Don’t _think_ _about_ – Christ, he’s thinking about it. You. Your legs. Around his waist. His hands grazing the inside. You, saying his name all sweet and soft –

“ _Christ_ –” he grits, “A little warning –”  


“Mary-Beth,” you seethe, suddenly _painfully_ aware of how nearly-undressed you are, “Where did you see the _snake –”_  


_“It_ swam _right_ _by you!”_  


_“ME?!”_ you nearly shriek, jumping away from the scene at hand, “Oh no, no, no.”  


Arthur laughs, then – deep and amused and you shoot him a look. Not that he can see it. He’s still won’t look at you.

Good thing.

You’re cold. You cross your arms over your chest.

“Someone’s gotta check if it’s gone,” you say finally, waving your hands, “Before I _freeze_ t’ death –”

_ HISSSSSSSSSS. _

_ “AAH!”  _

Arthur thinks this is a funny way for him to die, you clinging to him wet and half-naked, while a water moccasin slithering between his boots. 

Honestly, so be it.


	24. Finally, a kiss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Do you think Arthur would have nightmares after his near-death experience? Miss Turner?

It would be a cold, horrible world without him.

You wake up with tears already rolling down your cheeks and you try your best to pace out the nightmare along the side of the lake. Overhead, the moon glimmers down on you and the reflection along the water is like souls fleeting about in the depths – ivory and cold.

In your sleep, Arthur had been one of them. Nothing more than flesh and bone, picked apart by the foxes and crows.

Waylon Robbins had put him in a shallow grave.

“Miss Turner… y’alrigh’?”  


You jump, grip tightening on your shawl as you spin around. Your boots kick the lake pebbles as you move, sending them into the calm of the water and creating waves. 

Arthur Morgan does that – he… comes along and _steals_ your calm. 

He looks tired in the moonlight, bandages poking out from under the pull-over shirt he’s sporting. He crosses his arms as he approaches, worry evident in the pace – he isn’t smothering in his concern, however, and settles on the log overlooking the lake.

When you don’t answer – your voice is stuck in your throat – he blinks up at you with a quiet reverence.

“… Y’ wanna talk about it?”  


You can’t stop the tears that run at the coaxing softness in his voice. You feel like you’ve shattered, then, with two weeks of anxiety pouring over as it’s finally settled in that he’s _alive_ and not for lack of trying. You nearly lost him.

Nearly lost him before he was even _yours_ to lose.

Instead of sitting, you continue to pace.

Your voice hitches.

“ _Arthur_ …”   


“You’re upset.”  


“S’fine, I’m –”  


“ _Sweetheart_.”  


It’s said so _soft,_ so _gentle –_ it’s almost as if it had slipped out of him, a prayer in the wind. A plead to speak to him. It catches you, and like a fish with a lure rooted in its mouth, you’re reeled into his orbit. You’re stuck.

You speak plainly.

Arthur’s heart hammers in his chest.

“I nearly _lost_ you.”  


The weight of those words are astounding. Your voice cracks in the middle of it, driving a cavern of emotions between the meaning. There’s relief but there’s grief and Arthur isn’t sure where he quite fits in the picture. He has his hopes, but a home is never built on hope. A home is built on _foundation,_ something _real,_ something _grounding_. 

Your hands are shaking when you swipe at tears and you chew your lip.

“When Micah dragged you back –” you hiccup, “I… I sat there for _hours._ Hosea… Hosea didn’t think you’d make it ‘til _noon_ but I held out. I couldn’t… I couldn’t _say goodbye._ I couldn’t do it. I… I never slept and I never ate and I never left your side all th’ while. It was… I had alotta time t’ do nothin’ but t’ _think_ , y’know?”

Arthur’s composure drops into his gut. Beside his heart, the hole there burns.

You are, undoubtedly, about to tell him the same thing Mary did all those years ago. You are going to break his heart.

_It’s dangerous, this life you’re living and I can’t lose you to it. It’s me or them, Arthur, and we both know who you’ll chose,_ she’d said, _Please, be safe._

His eyes fall to his hands, elbows set on his knees as he leans forward and hangs his head. The posture isn’t that of a confident man – it’s of a burned one. Hurt grinds his jaw, brows knotted in something right angry.

“Arthur.”  


He looks up, shaking his head as he does. Bitterness sticks to his words.

“Jus’ say it.”  


_ Break his heart, kill him slowly. _

“I care about you, Arthur Morgan,” you blurt, “So much, I can… I can _hardly_ stomach it. More than… More than _anyone_ an’ – an’ I’m _scared.”_  


His eyes widen. 

There’s no _but,_ no _after thought_ that follows your words _._ Just… _security_ in your speech and honesty in your feelings and he’s _floored._ You sit on that log beside him with a horribly tired look on your face and Arthur’s heart lurches. 

You _care_ about _him_.

The beat of a moment it takes from him to process seems that, however, your confession doesn’t bode well for you. Your face falls at the sudden silence. The only sound is the crickets and the peepers and your heart, _thump-thum-thump-thum_ -ing in your ears.

You turn away.

So, Arthur reaches.

His hands slip along your cheeks like long-lost pieces to a puzzle you never knew you were missing. They’re calloused and rough and _warm_ against the soft skin along the line of your jaw – his _lips,_ though, pressed so tightly against yours, steal your breath away in one single purse; it’s _bliss, a_ rapture most divine, tied neatly with a bow and plopped into your lap. 

You feel light-headed, dizzy with affection and Arthur’s no better; his knees knock yours as you twist, hands flying to the fabric of his shirt. You anchor greedy hands there, nose against his own as you march forward – you do not let up, instead lifting your chin in a moment of pride that has him laughing that deep rumble of his. Arthur’s stubble itches in a wonderful way that leaves your cheeks raw with the sensation. It’s something you’d like to have the chance to get used to.

When he finally does come up for air, his world is spinning at a break neck pace. Your hands are creeping along the skin of his neck, up his jaw, exploring the warmth of _him_ – your eyes are shining with a different sort of happiness. One brought on by returned affection. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he mumbles, “Not now, not _ever_.”  


“Promise?”  


“Promise.”  


He’s going to put a bullet between Waylon Robbins eyes.

Arthur Morgan kisses you again as your part ways under the moonlight, this time his arms wrapped around your frame entirely. You don’t complain, not when his lips linger a bit at the curve of your jaw as he whispers a tired _goodnight._

You dream of him again, that night. Happily.

It’s a _warm,_ wonderful world with him in it.


	25. Gossip hounds (what good creatures they are).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon wondered: Ok but what about when the girls find out Ms. Turner and Arthur kissed

Things spread quick in the Van der Linde camp.

Things, specifically like that of _romance_ , spread even faster when Karen is involved.

(She can’t help it, really; she’s a _sucker_ for a good love-story – and, I mean, Tilly and Mary-Beth aren’t far off with their little romance novels kept tucked under pillows at night.)

Arthur Morgan, they notice, isn’t so _sour,_ suddenly.

Now, ‘sour’ is Arthur’s middle-name, followed by stubborn, rugged and _bad_ , but the last is more self-proclaimed than any. Arthur is, and always had been, a man of calculating self-doubt and reservation. The facade of “grumpy, old muscle” is sometimes annoying – mostly to those who want to be trigger-happy and jump the gun. He _thinks_ things out, contrary to his reputation as the thick-headed enforcer.

So, Karen isn’t the only one _surprised_ when Bill proposes a stagecoach robbery and Arthur just… _smiles,_ chirping a quick “sure, why not” before mounting up and riding out of camp with Sean and Lenny hot on their heels. 

When he comes back into camp, hauling $700 back in silver little money clips, Karen spies his gaze lingering on you by Hosea – you’re chatting lightly over a game of dominoes – and wonders if… _maybe…_

_ “Arthur!”  
_

He perks up, brows raising and head snapping to the sound of Karen’s voice. Sugarcube snorts and Arthur pats her neck, tucking away the brush into her saddle bag. 

It’s not just Karen that approaches, though. He’s suddenly descended upon by the _gossip_ _vultures_ of the Van der Linde’s. Mary-Beth and Tilly busy themselves with affection tossed Sugarcube’s way. The palomino flourishes in the spotlight of the attention. 

Arthur pulls an unlit cigarette from the corner of his mouth.

“Y’alrigh’, Karen?”  


“Is there somethin’ you wanna tell us?”  


Arthur crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes. “I think y’ lost me…”

Karen leans around Arthur, peaking over Sugarcube’s saddle on her tiptoes. You’re oblivious to the conversation – laughing with Hosea over some joke between rounds. The enforcer blinks, confusedly following the blonde’s gaze. He spies you and his face softens. 

Karen pinches Arthur’s arm.

“ _Ow!_ ”  


“Spill!” she peels into laughter, motioning to the look on his face.  


“I ain’t – _heh_ – I ain’t got nothin’ t’ spill, y’ _vultures –”_  


Karen laughs, shoving the man’s shoulders. “C’mon, don’t be _stingy.”_

Mary-Beth pokes over the hip of Sugarcube. Her eyes are bright. “Did you two _talk –”_

_“Confess your feelings?”_ Tilly coos, hands clasped together, “God knows she’s kept all a’ us outta it.”  


Arthur’s brows quirk. “What in th’ fresh hell –”

“Miss _Turner,”_ Karen snorts, swatting at the brim of Arthur’s hat, “You oaf. Spill. You’ve been walkin’ around all high ‘n’ mighty –”  


Arthur laughs, then – his usual warm and inviting one he saves for those he cares about. His head drops, brim of his hat obscuring Karen’s view of his face… But, she can see a smile there as he fiddles with the rolled cigarette. He seems to be thinking, trying to find words to gently describe the situation, but… he laughs again.

“She really ain’t told all a’ ya’s?”  


“No!” Mary-Beth nearly shrieks before dropping her voice to a whisper, “She’s _high-society modesty_ to the _bone,_ Arthur. We had to really dig our heels in t’ hear about her first kiss –”  


“Some farm-boy named _Thomas –”_  


_“–_ It was boring –”  


“Anyways,” Karen waves her hands, patting his chest again, “C’mon, she nursed y’ back t’ health… Did she _kiss it better?”_  


The girls descend into hushed laughter and Arthur snorts himself, throwing a hand back to pat Sugarcube’s jaw. 

“Listen, I don’ wanna _kiss ‘n’ tell –”_  


_“_ So you _did!”_  


Arthur’s eyes widen and he raises a finger to his lips. “Shh, keep yer voices down. You want th’ whole camp t’ know?”

“Christ,” Karen shirks, “What? You don’t?”  


“My business is –”  


“Arthur,” Tilly groans, “We all got open tents. We’re all gonna find out soon enough –”  


His ears get hot at that, cheeks breaking into a rosy flush. He rolls his eyes, a bit of his usual bitterness returning as a defense. He drops his cigarette between his lips. Arthur blinks over Sugarcube’s head again, spying you still by Hosea. 

“Yeah,” he coughs, “We’re… _figurin’ it out._ Now, don’t none a’ you say a word. Y’know how she is –”  


“Shy?”  


“ _Modest_ –” Arthur corrects, hands raised, “Just, don’t make a big scene –”

“Oh, never,” Karen laughs, pressing a hand to her bosom, “Me? _Never_.”

“Karen…”  


“ _Hey!_ Miss Turner!”  


Things spread quick in the Van der Linde camp. Especially when Karen’s hollerin’ about it in the middle of dinner time.


	26. Micah Bell more like Micah Smells.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon cheeped: how about some protective arthur???? soft man lookin out for his miss turner?????

You do not like Micah Bell.  


You do not _trust_ Micah Bell, you do not _go near_ Micah Bell.

Yet, somehow, the _leech_ always manages to find his way to you – he’s like a shadow, just around every corner you turn with something _smart_ to say.

(You’d liked it better at camp without him there. His ‘return’ was met with a quieted amount of disdain, it seems. No one wanted to openly admit distrust to the conniving weasel – though you had called the kettle black to Hosea the moment the outlaw had stepped back into the camp he’d deserted for weeks.

“It seems you and your beau,” Hosea had said, leaning back and watching Micah haul his things into a nearby tent, “Have the same sentiments.”  


Arthur is good with things like that – he’s a good judge of character with strong intuition and an honest loyalty to his people. If _you_ were able to pin Micah down as someone you didn’t trust, you wondered how Arthur felt.)

You’re wrist deep in laundry when he clears his throat above you. You glance up, only for a second, and at the sight of his boots duck your head down again.

“Leave me _be_ , Micah.”  


“Aw,” he chirps, “An’ here I was, gunna ask about the lil’ bit a news a birdie told me this mornin’.”  


You say nothing, only dig your hands in deeper to the pail and _scrub._

_“I heard,”_ he kicks off from his spot by the tent’s post, “That _you_ and our lovely, idiot cowpoke are… what’s the phrase? ‘ _Sweet’_ on one another… If y’ask me, that’s just a more _genteel_ way t’ say you’re _fucking_ but –”

“Mr. Bell,” you snap, “If you don’t _mind –”_  


_“_ There she is,” his smile grows at your heated posture, squatting down, “Y’know, that damn near broke my lil’ heart – pretty thing like you, shackled up t’ an idiot like Morgan –”  


You slap him so hard his head reels.

The whole camp falls silent at the sound – you’re like an angry cougar, teeth gritted and nostrils flared. Micah, when he turns his head back around and muscles his jaw, has a hand-shaped mark across his cheek.

“Watch your mouth, Mr. Bell.”  


“ _You_ best watch your _back,_ Miss Turner–”

“ _Micah_ ,” it’s the booming voice of Arthur now, boots trampling the dirt as he hauls himself over with hurried strides, “Y’ got ten seconds t’ make yerself scarce before I put a bullet between yo’ eyes.”  


You don’t back down. Your stare is mean and angry and it’s like _fire_ – Micah, despite his pride, stands and waves off Arthur.

“Calm down, calm down, cowpoke –”  


“Shut up, Micah.”  


“I’ll give it t’ ya, Morgan,” Micah seethes as he backs away, “She must be fun in bed.”  


You have to stop Arthur then as you’re sure he’s going to snap Micah’s _damn neck_ with his bare hands. You drive yourself between them both before they begin to lock antlers like bucks in the wild – you press your palms to Arthur’s chest, mindful of the wound there, while speaking quickly.

“He ain’t worth it, Arthur.”  


“Listen t’ yer girl, _Arthur_.”  


Arthur snarls, fists balled tight at his sides. “You even _breathe_ near her again, Micah, I swear –”

“I’d like t’ see you _try_ , old man.”  


“Enough!” you snap, turning around so fast you nearly give yourself whip lash. Your voice hikes high and sharp in a way Arthur had never heard before. You’re _angry,_ “Micah, _fuck off.”_

_That_ makes Arthur smile. Micah, sure enough, swats at the air and skulks off to his tent at the far end of camp and you watch, ensuring he’s _miles_ away before you even dare turn your back. He’s like a toothy, mangy coyote… waiting for the best time to strike. You heave a sigh, finally, and turn back to Arthur. He’s looking at you, a bit of worry in his eye.

“I had it handled,” you say slowly, hands on your hips.  


“Oh,” Arthur snorts, “There’s no doubt in my mind about tha’.”  


There’s a beat of a moment between you both – you blink up at him before smiles wash over you both.

“Nice slap.”  


“Kinda hurt.”  


“Want me t’ kiss it better?”  


You laugh, then, shoving him playfully as he trails behind you – a bit like a loyal guard dog – and settles on the crate beside the washing bin. You slip to your knees, taking a breath in the shade before turning your attention back to the garment in the wash. It’s one of Arthur’s shirts.

He notices how carefully you work to wash the blood out.

His hand finds your hair, tucking a stray strand back into it’s place within your braid.

You stop, then, turning your attention to the outlaw beside you.

“What?”  


“If he ever bothers you again –”  


“You’ll shoot ‘im?”  


Arthur laughs. “Maybe. It’d be a great excuse. But, m’serious… I’ll handle it. Micah’s… Micah’s a _snake._ ”

You lean back on your heels, stealing his hand from your hair. He presses softly to the curve of your cheek and you press a kiss to his palm. “Arthur Morgan, loyal to a fault an’ ever the protector, huh?”

His eyes are a little wide, face set with an adoring look. “Fer you, yea.”

You smile, then, big and warm like sunshine through parting clouds. Arthur happily watches, trying his best to memorize the curve of your lips and the way your eyelashes kiss your cheeks. You pluck at his fingers, enjoying the warmth and weight of his hand in yours. His eyes fall to your mouth again, and yours his.

Tension hangs between you both.

“… I guess everyone knows, then.”  


“Hm?” he grunts, “‘Bout what?”  


“‘Bout us.”  


Arthur nods, then, swallowing and raising his brows. “That… a _bad_ thing?”

You roll your eyes. “Arthur – I was… I was _tryin’_ to insinuate that means – well, it means you can kiss me _whenever_ you’d like.”

He laughs – embarrassed and sheepish and boyish and excited all the same. He shifts in his spot, tipping the brim of his hat back with his finger as he leans forward and catches you in a quick one; your elbows fall along his lap and the closeness is wonderful. Arthur happily sweeps you into a tender hold with his hands, fingers playing absentmindedly with the hair at the back of your neck. 

“Get a room!”

You swore, in that moment, Arthur was going to shoot Micah Bell dead.

But, a girl can dream.


	27. Finally, a shared bed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: How about the first time they share a bed? A lot of first times!!!

Your tent befalls the same fate as Pearson’s old one, one night.

The summer storms in Rhodes are something fierce – wind turns rain to pelting bullets and the lake around Clemens Point rises with dangerous white caps. The weather turns itself on a head, humidity turning to frigid, crisp air in a blink. 

You’d been lucky enough to spot the loose stake the moment your tent had started to shift around in the wind. Charles and Arthur and Lenny had _tried_ to wrangle with the canvas amidst the rain and thunder and lightning and wind, but… 

Off it went. 

Right into the lake.

“C’mon,” it’s Arthur, shouting over the storm, “Everyone get back t’ yer tents! Miss Turner, with me.”  


You make your way to Arthur little spot across camp and tie the flaps shut tight behind you. You’re both soaked to the bone, clothing clinging to you – and it’s _freezing_. You go about wringing your skirt out as Arthur shakes himself off. In the light of the gas lantern, he looks softer than usual. His hair is slicked with rain, cheeks rosy from the cold. He quickly peels his shirt off, revealing his crimson union suit beneath it. 

“Here,” he says softly, moving to rummage through the trunk at the foot of his bed, “Don’t want you catchin’ a cold.”  


He offers a clean union suit and you have to laugh – it’s _huge,_ but the gesture is so incredibly endearing that you can’t complain. Instead, you turn away him on the other side of his bed and work at your soaked chemise.

Arthur clears his throat, turning his back to offer privacy.

Ever the gentleman.

Shirking the thin nightgown over your head, it hits the ground with a wet _slap._ Arthur’s jeans are no different. They weigh ten pounds more thanks to the rain. 

He runs his hands through his hair fast, out of nerves and need, a bit like a dog shaking after being in the water. 

It’s suddenly dawning on him the complexities of the situation he’s gotten himself into. 

Here you are, in his clothing, about to crawl into his cot… _beside him._

“Well,” you finally say, fingers working at the buttons, “I think this is as good as it may get.”  


It’s _warm,_ you’ll say that much. And comfortable. But… it’s _swimming_ on you _._ Bagging around your ankles and arms and dipping low along your sternum – Arthur has to tear his eyes away from the sight. It spurs his heart into a kick-up. You chew your lip at the reaction. 

“It, uh,” he coughs, “Looks nice.”  


“Yea,” you snort at his rosy cheeks, “I’m _sure_ –”  


“Should I take th’ floor?”  


You blink, eyes pulling wide at his sudden blurt of the question.

You realize, suddenly, that the emotion settled along his shoulders and brow is _anxiousness._ Arthur drops his hands to his narrow hips, rocking back on his heels as he itches the side of his face. 

“I don’t wanna make y’ uncomfortable is all an’ –”  


It’s incredibly sweet.

“Arthur,” you say finally, laughing a little as you do, “Get into bed.”  


“… Y’ sure?”  


“Mhm,” you nod, closing your eyes, “Which side do y’ want?”  


He purses his lips. Then climbs in on the left. 

He takes up a lot of space on the cot – he’s broad shouldered and no small man and you nearly laugh at how comically small he tries to make himself so you have room to settle in beside him. You pay no mind to it, happily crawling over him and knocking knees with him as you do. His hands reach out, balancing on your hips as you move to settle above him for a moment. Your elbow falls beside his head, stray hand moving to card through his wet hair.

You straddle him, then, smiling.

“You, Arthur Morgan,” you say sweetly, “Could _never_ make me uncomfortable… and if y’did? I’d _tell_ you.”  


You move to pepper lingering kisses along his face, only satisfied when he _finally_ laughs, lets go of some of that anxiety and kneads at your hips. Tossing your hair back, you roll and fall along side him. Shoulder to shoulder, you realize that this _isn’t_ exactly comfortable –

As if he’d read your mind, Arthur leans and darts a kiss to your temple. “I ain’t ignorin’ you… jus’… I sleep on my side.”

And you _happily_ move to wrap your arms around his middle when he does.

… This is nice.

Better than nice. Comfortable. _Wonderful_. The weight of your arms around his middle and your chest pressed against his back is like an anchor in the middle of rough sea. Here and there, you press lingering kisses to his shoulder through the fabric of his union suit and as sleep worms it’s way in, he still gives little grunts of appreciation each time.

It’s cozy – this moment feels separate from the outside world. The rain whips and the wind howls and the thunder roars, but… it’s quiet in here. Warm and welcoming and every bit _Arthur._

“Good nigh’, sweetheart,” he mumbles.  


“Night, Arthur.”  


You finally drift off sometime after midnight to the sound of Arthur snoring. 

When you wake, the storm has passed. 

Morning sun filters in through the tent’s flaps, stirring you gently. Upon the slow, groggy come-to, you realize that you and Arthur are tangled – limbs knotted around one another and legs kicking at the wool sheets at the foot of his bed. His face is tucked neatly into the crook of your neck and shoulder, beard tickling the exposed flesh there as he snores _still._ His hands are around your waist, splayed across your stomach and holding you tight. The weight of him is extremely pleasant. It feels _safe._

Sleep tugs at your eyes. You press a lazy kiss to his temple. He groans. His lips meet the juncture of your neck and you ignore the heat it stirs in your belly.

You both go back to sleep.

Fixing the mess of your tent can wait… _hopefully_ until noon, Arthur thinks.

You don’t want to get up.


	28. Letters (from no good, fiendish exes).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: I can't wait for Mary to come back and to watch Miss Turner go off like "bitch get the fuck away from MY man"

You’re surprised when Arthur gets the letter.

You are, however, _not_ surprised to learn this isn’t the first.

Miss Grimshaw slips it to Arthur over dinner, going through the mail for the day, and you are _immediately_ aware of a floral perfume radiating from the crisp, ivory envelope. Arthur, ignoring the flowing script on the front in favor of the stew in his other hand, tears at the paper and – the cursive flounce of his name across the header catches him off guard.

He flips the page, eyes scanning the words quickly.

You’re not lost on his reaction. His stew is forgotten.

“You got t’ be _kiddin_ ’ me.”  


Miss Grimshaw, like a hawk, swivels on her heels and narrows her eyes. “Is that letter from that _trash,_ Mary Linton? I _knew_ I recognized the handwriting –”

“Mary Linton?” you ask, in passing, eyes watching as Susan moves to try and snatch the letter from Arthur. The Linton family name seems familiar to you. You wonder, if in passing, you’ve met the girl.  


You’ve heard her name tossed about in passing, usually with a calculated level of malice from Susan Grimshaw and Hosea and even Dutch – but, never has she expressly been explained. Now, suddenly, you’re beginning to realize that…

Well, Mary must be the one Arthur’d told you about. The one who’d tried to get back with him… the one before you.

“She…” Arthur swats at Susan’s hand, ignoring Hosea’s un-amused look as he stands, moving to retreat to his tent. Away from prying eyes, a desperate sort of annoyance floods his voice, “She and I – I cannot _believe_ that woman!”

You follow, settling on the edge of his cot as he takes up to pacing. 

Anger bites at his posture.

Gently, you ask if you could see the letter. Arthur huffs, tossing it your way and returning to his stew with an irritated set of his jaw. You eye him carefully, taking the note into your hands and recoiling slightly at the strength of the perfume.

“She’s clearly _trying_ hard enough,” you mutter, sniffing the page and scoffing, “Eugh, what is this? _Lion d’Or? My_ _grandmother_ wore that perfume.”

His head swivels for a moment at your remark, semi-amused gaze rooted to the way you seem to snarl at the flourished handwriting darting across the page. Irritation suddenly blooms into something _green_ and jaded like jealousy; it stabs you in the heart, spurring you into a bit of a heated tempo as you speak.

“I’m surprised she didn’t dot her i’s with hearts,” you chirp, beginning to read aloud, “– _Oh_ , _Arthur, why can not change to be the woman I want to be –”_  


Upon skimming the next sentence, your jaw nearly hits the floor.

“– _Why couldn’t you change and be a man –_?!”  


You drop the letter to your lap, snapping your head to Arthur and gawking. “ _She_ had you wrapped around her pretty little finger? What a back-handed – Oh, I’m… You’ve got t’ be _kidding!”_

Arthur huffs. “She’s _quite_ the charmer –”

You blink at the letter.

_“I’m staying in the Grand Hotel –”_ you read, disbelief dripping from your words, “She certainly has th’ _gall._ What’s she gonna do, huh? Invite you up for _tea?_ I ought t’ show up instead –”  


Arthur huffs a discouraged laugh, like a man stuck between a rock and a hard place, as he runs a hand over his face. “Leave it _be_ , sweetpea – I’ll… I’ll handle it.”

You stand then, shoulders square and jaw set. “You shouldn’t go.”

“Well,” Arthur bawks, “Why _not?”_  


_“Because, she’s using you._ She knows you’re _good,_ knows you _help people,_ she’s… she’s hoping you’ll come to her beckoned call because you still love her,” you shove the letter your way, a sudden sense of insecurity seeping into your heart, “So, _go_ … if that’s _what you want._ If you’re still…”  


The words die in your throat.

You wave your hands, turning from him and looking small in the light of the lantern on his desk. Guilt suddenly nibbles at his chest, face falling as he suddenly realizes that your reaction was born out of worry. 

“Hey…” he says softly, reaching out.  


You shrug off the touch. 

“Sweetpea,” he says again, nickname like honey on his lips, “Look at me.”  


After a moment, you turn. Your arms are crossed and there’s a miserable sort of look on your face, born out of a sudden self-consciousness about the severity of your affection for Arthur and… and this _Mary Linton._ Your gaze is rooted to the ground.

Arthur’s hands are warm on your chin. “Y’ know you mean th’ world t’ me, righ’?”

You chew your lip, toeing the dirt.

Arthur moves, sitting on the cot and letting you tower over him. It’s a deliberate move, a play meant to give you power. He steals your hands at once, moving to pepper kisses to your palms and wrist. 

“You,” he says quietly, “are my _moon,_ an’ my _stars,_ an’ everythin’ in between… I’m… I’m not good with words, you know that, an’ I been thinkin’ on that line fer a bit so –”  


Your wall breaks at that, a miserable laugh crawling for your throat. Arthur beams at it, hands moving to find your waist. Your fingers inch into his hair, nails running over his scalp. “S’ a good line.”

“It’s true, too,” he chirps, tugging you to his lap. You fall complacently, knees falling on either side of his thighs as your skirt pools around you like a ripples in a lake, “Mary… Mary has _nothin’_ on you.”  


His hands sprawl across your back, pulling your close to his chest. You move to nod, inhaling and draping your arms around his shoulders.

“You’re too good,” you say softly, eyes roaming the angles of his face, “You say you’re a bad man, Arthur Morgan, but here you are, tryin’ your best t’ convince me… All so you can help a woman who broke your heart.”  


“I ain’t gonna help her,” he says, mouth moving to dart a kiss to the round of your shoulder, “I can’t. Not after all she did t’ me. She don’t deserve it.”  


“No,” you utter, “She doesn’t.”  


“Well, I don’t deserve you.”  


“Yes, you do,” you whisper, pecking his lips, “Every bit of me.”  


“Every bit?”   


A nod, eyes dilated like dinner plates at the prospect of more than just a sweet gesture of romance. You’re _hungry_ for it, hungry for the feeling of his hands in more places that just your jaw, just your waist.

It’s enough permission to spur Arthur, reserved and careful, into a canter.

He ensnares you in a kiss, then, that’s different from others you’ve shared – this has _heat,_ a permanency that arrives in the escalation of intent. Your hands rake through his hair, his hands finding the skin of your thighs beneath the hills of tulle. Arthur’s grip shifts, hands finding your back end and pressing you flush to his hips in one quick movement that leaves you surprised and _elated._ You gasp, head dropping back at the sensation of his hips bucking to meet your core, giving him enough leeway to bite a lovely little mark to the column of your throat. 

“That okay?”  


“More than okay,” you swallow, “You’re good at distracting me from th’ point.”

“What point?” he asks playfully, leaning forward and catching you in another kiss as your legs move, winding around his waist, “I seem t’ have forgotten –”  


“Forgotten about Mary?”  


You can feel him, now, straining every bit against the fabric of his pants – it’s a _delightful_ sensation, one that makes you feel more _criminal_ than ever. Arthur seems to agree, a low groan settled in the back of his throat when he responds.

“ _Completely.”_


	29. Finally, some heated touches. [NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon pleaded: *begging on my hands and knees* please give us some Arthur and Miss Turner sexy times??? We all know she wants it so bad and I’m living vicariously though her

You hate snakes.

God, you _hate_ them.

They are — really — pointless, angry, little worms that strike fear into your very mortal soul. They’ve got a clear vendetta against the human race, as so demonstrated by the current snake bite on your leg.

The thing had _lunged_ from the brush as you’d been aiming down the iron sights of Arthur’s bolt action rifle.

(Practice makes perfect is Arthur’s mantra now that you’ve gotten a bit more comfortable with the whole idea of _shooting_ , so you happily humor him with more practice between hunting trips and jobs. You’re getting quite good and, according to Sadie, you’ve got a natural affinity for sharpshooting. That makes you puff with pride and Arthur can’t help but happily chirp: _I taught her everything she knows_.)

Currently, though, the shooting practice has been forgotten and you’re screeching in pain, jumping around in sheer panic as the snake slithers away into the woods — Arthur’s eyes pull wide in panic, hands moving to urge you to settle on the stone wall.

“Oh, god,” you breathe, hands shaking, “I’m gonna die.”

“No, y’ain’t,” Arthur says sternly, hands flying to press your dress up without a word, “Let me see it.”

“Christ, the little _bastard_ ,” you whine, hands shaking a bit as you tug your skirts up and away from the two fanged wound, “It _hurts_.”

Arthur spares you a sympathetic look from his spot knelt in front of you before he unceremoniously latches his mouth to the flesh above your knee and sucks.

You gawk.

He, then, casually spits the venom from the bite out over his shoulder and pats your thigh.

As if nothing happened.

You’re still gawking.

“That _cannot_ be good for you.”

“Probably not,” he rumbles, “But snake venom ain’t either.”

“… Was it even a venomous snake?”

“ _Noooo_ ,” Arthur chirps sarcastically, head tilting, “ _I just wanted a good enough reason t’ lift yer skirts_ — ‘ _course_ it was venomous. Did y’ not see th’ stripes?”

“No, I was busy _screamin_ ’, thank you,” you swat at his shoulder. “And as if you’d need a _reason_.”

His brow quirks beneath his hat. “Y’ tryna tell me somethin’, Miss Turner?”

Suddenly, you’re very aware of the hand lingering on your calf — calloused fingers brush the skin there, hitching your breath a bit as you try desperately to keep your composure.

“ _Mr. Morgan_ — I’m simply stating…”

His eyes never break from yours, even as he leans to press a slow kiss to the front of your knee. Your heart jumps, skin absolutely burning from the languid kiss. He moves, then, scruff ticking the inside of your knee as he moves to press another kiss to the spot there.

You’re not at all sure where his confidence has come from, but you’re not at all complaining. In fact, you’ve turned to an absolute puddle, face pulled into a delight look of surprise that Arthur finds rather _charming_.

“Still hurt?”

“You,” you swallow thickly, “are doing a _wonderful_ job of kissing it better.”

He laughs against your skin, smirk pulling the corner of his mouth as he bites a loving little mark to the inside of your knee. That startles a little gasp from you, one that leaves Arthur chasing more.

He shifts then, kneeling in the underbrush and finding your gaze again — it’s heavy with a burning tension that scalds him to think about. The skin under his fingertips is fire hot. Your dress is hiked up over your hips, showing the delicate lace undergarments there.

Under thick lashes, blue eyes dart to your covered core. Only for a moment. Like he’s glimpsing the way of forbidden fruit. They’re back on you in a moment as his hands scale your thighs.

You stir, belly stirring with heat that drives straight to the juncture between your legs as his hands brush you there.

“Y’ can tell me t’ stop,” he rasps, “An’ I’ll stop.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

That comes out a bit more _desperate_ than you intend.

He ducks, then, pressing a searing kiss to the inside of your thigh that’s not nearly close enough to your core but very much _there_ — you snag his hat, happily dropping it on your own head and threading greedy fingers into his hair.

Arthur smirks into your skin again, left hand crawling to press against you over your bloomers.

You gasp, then, hand shooting to grab his wrist. He moves to pull away, but you urge him on; his smile grows in confidence, a bit boyish, but very content with the reaction he’s rousing out of you.

“Good?”

“Very,” you exhale, dropping your head back a bit as his thumb presses against the bundle of nerves there — the friction is enough to have your legs shaking a bit. Your eyes are screwed shut, hand bracing you up on the stone wall as the other spurs him onward.

Snake bite long forgotten.

Arthur is _very content_ kneelingin the dirt between your legs. You’re slowly but surely coming undone above him and it’s certainly a sight to be seen. Even with layers of clothing between you two, the moment is bathed in a sort of intimacy that has his own arousal aching.

Especially when you whine his name like that.

“I think,” he rumbles, chin high as he watches proudly as you squirm against his hand, “that bite a’ yers will be just fine, Miss Turner.”

A high peeled laugh, more breath than sound. “O-Oh? That’s good, thank you.”

Another hitch, another whine. 

He’s suddenly aware of how soaked you are through the lace. In response, he surges up, rising to snag you in a kiss that smothers the sweet, little sounds you’re making. You crumple, then, arching over the wall as Arthur straddles your thigh and continues his ministrations — this time circular and repetitive and in the perfect spot. His mouth latches to your throat, sucking a pretty, little bite into delicate skin there.

“Yer _very_ welcome.”  


“ _Arthur_ —” it’s a plead.

He laughs, low and deep, in your ear. “Mhm?”

Your hand finds his shirt, clawing at him as your hips buck and you whimper, breath stripped from you as he winds you higher and higher and _higher_ —

“Go ahead,” he nearly purrs, “I gotcha.”

It’s blinding, really, when the monsoon of an orgasm washes over you. Your legs are shaking and your hearing goes for a moment, but you’re saying his name over and over like a prayer as you ride out the best feeling in the universe — and when you go slack, his hat falling off your head, he can only laugh all proud and warm and pat your thigh. 

All is quiet for a moment, then you come back to the world.

_ “Christ almighty.” _

“Tha’s not my name —”

You throw his hat at him as he stands back, hands falling to his hips as he marvels a bit at the comical sight of you, draped over a stone wall with your skirts hiked over your hips. He catches it with a grin, shrugging it onto his head.

“You alrigh’ there, sleepin’ beauty?”

“Leave me here,” you chirp, bones like goo, “I’ll die happy.”

Arthur laughs again, shaking his head and fixing himself in his pants. He’s painfully hard but — he’ll take care of it later. This whole encounter is certainly _wonderful_ fodder for when he’s alone. 

“C’mon, you. Can’t let y’ go septic because a’ tha’ bite.”

You guess he has a point.

You pull yourself up, pouting a bit.

Following him to Sugarcube, hitched beyond the trees, you can’t help but marvel at two things: the fact your knees are like _pudding_ , and the fact Arthur’s head is held high as he clears the way to his horse. 

He’s _proud of himself._

Sugarcube whinnies.You’re thankful she didn’t see the on-goings.

Arthur offers a hand to help you up. 

“You know,” he says slowly after a bit, “That’s barely the beginnin’ a’… _that._ Dyin’ happy comes _much_ later.”

“Sounds like you’re tryna tell me somethin’, Mr. Morgan,” you chirp, hands around his waist, “Care t’ _share_?”

He just smiles, shaking his head as you laugh.

Modesty will be the bane of both your existences. 


	30. Big, galloping purchases.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked, after I posted about Miss Turner buying a horse: Wait what kind of horse did she get??

You are _excited._

It shows in your step, the way you fly out of the saddle once they’re at the auction. The crowded market of Saint Denis is certainly _something_ ; the sights, the sounds, the smells… _You_ are a city-dweller at heart, it’s where you feel most comfortable. It shows in your unabashed willingness to _be_ in the bustling chaos of it all.

As Arthur hitches his horse, you can see the evident discomfort in his shoulders.

He pats Sugarcube and you saddle up to his side, slipping a hand in his and nudging him softly.

“Thank for comin’.”  


He seems to melt at the touch, happily knotting his fingers with yours. Seeing the rugged outlaw ease into a display of public affection is rather charming. He squeezes your fingers once, nodding curtly as he pulls away and plants his hand along the small of your back.

“Sure,” he offers, “Now, let’s get you a horse, Miss Turner.”  


You’re glad you came early – the sun is just now rising over the smoke stacks on the horizon, painting the city in diluted pastels. The market is already busy, no doubt thanks to the auction, and you begin to weave through the crowd with Arthur hot on your heels. He tends to tower over most folks – it’s reassuring having such an imposing figure at your beckoned call. 

Once at the front of the pen, your eyes widen a bit at the selection of horses.

Three Thoroughbreds, a few fillies, an older American Paint and _one_ big, beautiful Suffolk Punch.

He is… _perfect._

His color is a dark, dark, _dark_ brown – bordering on a inky color – with one loan white mark on the center of his forehead. He’s playing with the fillies, head bobbing and hooves clopping; his personality shines in the playfulness he shows with the younger horses who laugh and trot around him happily.

“Look at him.”  


Arthur squints. “Th’ Suffolk Punch?”

“He’s _beautiful_ –”  


“He’s _huge.”_  


You shoot Arthur a look. “He’s a _work_ horse.”

“A horse like tha’ is hard t’ handle. Heavy – he’s more of a draft than a work horse, sweetpea. He’s gonna be a _lotta work._ Y _’_ think y’ can do that?” Arthur asks gently, blinking down at you as you chew your lip and eye the horse at the far end.  


It’s cute – you’ve already got a loyalty to that horse. He has to hide his adoring smile; he strikes a cigarette.

_Hm_.

“… You think Kieran would help me?”  


Arthur frown, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the fence. Worry slips onto his face. He tugs his hat down, puffing his cigarette. “I don’t like you hanging’ around that O’Driscoll –”

“Arthur,” you remind gently, “He’s not –”

“I know,” he surrenders, raising his hands and flicking the bud into the mud, “I know. I just… You know how I am.”  


“Mhm,” you mutter, leaning and patting his back, “I do, but Kieran’s really nice, he’s a good man. Good with the horses, too. He _loves_ Sugarcube. Maybe he could help me with that horse…”  


“You sure y’ don’t wanna try a stable?”  


“An’ pay an’ arm an’ a leg?”  


Arthur laughs. He leans and lowers his voice. “I could always _steal_ y’ one.”

“Oh, be still my beating heart.”  


You shove him playfully and he laughs. “You like that one, huh?”

“Yeah,” you nod, a hopeful look in your eyes, “I’ve never owned a horse of my own before… I always liked th’ bigger ones.”  


Christ, you’re cute.

The auction starts with the call by the seller – the fillies go first to some woman in an expensive dress and a polished accent. It takes a bit of bartering between buyers for the Thoroughbreds to go, and the Paint is paraded around the ring for five minutes before a young man buys her for ten dollars. Cheap, but good. She seems to like him immediately.

When the Suffolk Punch is pulled out, arms are immediately raised in the air.

Yours is one.

“Starting the bid at –”  


“Fifty dollars!”  


“Fifty-five!”  


“ _Sixty-five, here!”_  


It climbs faster than you can keep up. You’re head bounces around the lot and when the air calms around the price of $80, you jump.

“Ninety, here, please!” you call, waving your hand as you bounce on your tippy-toes.  


Arthur smiles, watching you wave down the seller.

“One hundred.”  


That cuts down your excitement. A man at the far ring narrows his eyes on you. You can feel your lip curl. It’s a challenge, clearly, and you drive up the price.

“One hundred _five,_ sir.”  


“One hundred fifty,” he barks, “That horse is _mine,_ girl.”  


Your stomach drops. That… _that_ is bold. And that is _much_ more than you brought to the auction. You’d only had enough for a horse worth $130, and even _that_ was overkill. You’d _thought_ the bidding would have ended minutes ago but… the Punch is spry and young and ready to be worked.

Your shoulders fall.

Suddenly, Arthur clears his throat. He leans digging into his satchel.

“Two hundred,” he calls, “An’ ten for you if you shut yer damn mouth, sir.”  


You gawk.

Silence falls the auction lot, whispers accompanying the procurement of the bill clip in Arthur’s hands. It’s a hefty wad of cash – one that you blink incredulously at. 

“ _Arthur_ –”  


“The Suffolk Punch,” calls the auctioneer, “To the man in the cowboy hat.”  


“What are you _doing?”_  


He cracks a smile at you, handing over the money to the auctioneer – and the additional bill for the man at the other end – with a curt nod before kicking off the fence. 

“Buyin’ you a horse.”  


He starts through the crowd and you follow, absolutely gobsmacked at the gesture. Your laughter rises above the bustle of the market as he makes his way around the back of the stables towards where the horse is being kept.

You catch up to him outside the doors. “Will you _slow_ down?”

“I wanna see th’ horse –”  


“Arthur,” you say gently, smile bright, “You didn’t have t’ do that.”  


“Yeah,” he grunts, taking off his hat and toeing the dirt, “I coulda got you flowers, but… This’ll last longer.”

“ _You,”_ you chirp as you surge up to catch him in a quick kiss, “are an idiot.”  


“Hosea thinks so, too,” Arthur mutters against your lips, chasing them greedily, “But, I… uh, I always been one fer _grand gestures_ –”  


“Really, now?”  


“Oh, yea,” Arthur smiles, nose brushing yours, “Gold bars, _stolen stagecoaches_ –”  


You laugh, shoving him gently as he muscles his hat on and follows you into the barn. It’s hot inside and you hike your skirt up in a careful hand as you wade through the mud and manure. The Suffolk Punch is _happy_ to see people it seems, head bobbing as you approach with an eager smile.

Arthur leans in the doorway. “Whatcha gonna name ‘im?”

You hum. 

“What do you think?” you ask, leaning over the gate, patting the beast’s muzzle, “You bought ‘im.”  


Arthur kicks off the door, thumbs hooked on his holster. 

“How about… uh, _Hugo?”_  


_ “Hugo.”  
_

_“_ Like, uh, _Huge-o.”_  


You snort, laughter filling his ears as the horse whinnies – as if he’s laughing along.

“I like that,” you parrot, “Hugo. Hi, Hugo.”  


Arthur pats your bottom, leaning on the gate beside you. “I got one question.”  


“Yea?”  


“How th’ hell y’gon get up on that thing?”  


Hm. Good point.


	31. Finally, perfected touches. [NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Great now she has to get HIM off!!!

He can’t sleep.

He tosses, for the fifth time in ten minutes, and curses himself as he does. It’s the fourth night in a row of this hellish curse — He should be exhausted, but the heavy pull of his eyelids is absent. A fan of his beauty rest, he finds himself irritated with the fact he _could_ be asleep by now, snoring loudly and blissfully unaware of the world.

But, Arthur Morgan can’t sleep. 

He tosses again. His tent is illuminated by a strip of light glimmering through the gap in the canvas — the dying campfire floods his space in oranges and inky blues. It’s late now, and the camp is silent save for the lap of waves on the shore of the lake and the peepers in the tall grass. 

Somewhere in the distance, coyotes bay and yip as Dutch snores, like a chainsaw, cutting through the night.

_ Christ, it’s annoying.  _

Arthur kicks at the sheets tangled around his feet.

Draping an arm over his eyes, he tries to block out the light and count the crickets chirping, but his mind keeps wandering to places that leave sleep just out his reach.

_It’s anxiety_ , Hosea had said, commenting on Arthur’s sudden evasion of sleep, _keeps you up, just like me._

After another half hour, he strangles an annoyed sigh behind his hand as he rubs his face and grits his jaw. He imagines the circles under his eyes are dark as coal now. He’s sure Micah will make a comment over breakfast — something about _Miss Turner keepin’ you up, Morgan?_

… That’s a nice thought.

(It’s Pinkertons and Bounty Hunters and the O’Driscolls, really.)

Arthur, then, decides that maybe that very thought could be his saving grace and he sets out to tire himself in the best way possible — hand fisted down his union suit, teeth barred and eyes clamped shut.

He intended for it to be quick — not drawn out nor luxurious in any fashion; after all, the other tents were only feet away. Sound carries and Arthur would rather the others _not_ hear the more explicit parts of his mind playing out in the early morning hours.

… But, you _are_ a _lovely_ thought.

_ Nails digging into his shoulders as you try to grapple under the mounting heat between your legs, knees shaking as he winds you up like a toy, thumb grazing that sensitive bundle of nerves… _

Fingers work at peeling away the top of his union suit, a flash of hot interest peaking in his gut at the mere recall of you whispering his name in moments more heated. You have a way of doing that to him; you get him going quick with the brush of a kiss, utterance of a name, touch of a hand. It’s embarrassing, almost, how tight you have him wrapped around your thumb and how willingly he lets that become his place.

Arthur blinks down at his hips, heavy lashes fluttering as he palms at his arousal. He’s hard already, shamefully so, and he can’t help but chew his lip as he runs a hand along himself over his wool suit. The friction is nice. He thinks about you, keening along his fingers, and the friction gets nicer.

He’s distracted, mind in the field you’d both stood in three days ago. You’re propped up on that wall, snakebite forgotten, as his lips attack love-bites into the delicate flesh of your thigh. He remembers the sounds, the breathy little whimpers and the way you’d _pleaded_ his name — he remembers the slick heat between your legs as he’d happily delved across the lace with nimble fingers. The moment is seared into his brain, and suddenly Arthur wishes he’d had the courage to rip your bloomers off and away and get a taste.

His hips buck a bit at the thought of you, legs spread and ankles hitched around his shoulders as he laps at the delicate folds of flesh there. _You’d be warm and sweet and wonderful_ , he thinks, and his chin would be slick with evidence of your arousal.Arthur shudders a breath, trying to keep it down. He passes another touch across himself and shifts on his cot, lip pulled between his teeth tightly —

Arthur can hardly speak when his tent floods with light and you’re suddenly there, a soft gasp worming itself from your lips.

In the light of the dimmed fire, you glow; but Arthur doesn’t give himself a moment to linger on the sight. He curses in a harsh whisper, hands flying to cover himself and tug at the sheets at the foot of his bed.

What he’s been up to, though, isn’t lost on you.

“Miss Turner —“

“Sorry,” you whisper coyly, not at all unsettled by the thought of Arthur Morgan taking care of himself — quite the opposite, “Am I interrupting?”

(You’d been in the same predicament as him, sleep lost and worry high.)

Arthur’s clutching the sheets over his arousal when you speak, head dropping back to the pillows as he tries to overcome the sudden shame and embarrassment that flies across his face. Arthur knows he’s been caught, there’s no sense in tiptoeing around this, and yet all he can manage to grit out is a sarcastic:

“Not at all, sweetpea, not at all.”

“You’re an outlaw, Arthur,” you whisper, moving towards the cot, “Not a _liar_.”

He bites his tongue, blue eyes moving to follow you as you drift closer. Your chemise is hanging from your shoulders, hair spilling over your back in sleep kissed knots and you look like an angel, something that should stay far from the dirtier thoughts he’d just been having about you —

“Can’t sleep?” you ask, kneeling beside his cot, eyes roaming him greedily.

Arthur doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods his head.

“… Could I help?”

It’s like leaping off a bridge — it’s a dive into uncharted waters. You’ve never done something like this, not with him nor anyone, but the thought is hardly there thanks to how much you _want_ it. Arthur seems to notice the hungry look in your eyes and succumbs to it fully, hands moving to push away the sheets in acceptance of your help.

“I, uh, just —“ the sentence burns up in your gaze.

You decide, very quickly, that Arthur Morgan looks rather pretty like this.

His union suit is unbuttoned, splitting him up the middle and exposing the plains of his chest and abdomen. His skin is hot, from the summer night and the burning arousal, and you find yourself quite enamored with the view before you.

Arthur is bright pink. Even in the dark of his tent you can see it. He can’t help it — this is the thing of fantasy, having you admire him so openly, having you reach to touch him in a way so intimate. The rosy blush that has settled neatly across his cheeks and ears steals your breath away.

The evidence of his arousal is outlined in his union suit and his entire body lurches when you reach, one finger tracing the side of him as you smile so sickly sweet that Arthur feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

_ This is going to be the death of him.  _

He can hardly look at you, too taken by sheepishness but hips spurred by the greedy look you give as you rise from the floor. He shifts, arching to follow your touch, and you give a breathless little laugh when you settle back down beside him on his cot.

This time, the pressure is a bit more — your whole palm grazes him and he shudders, dark lashes screwing shut as he swallows and tries to form a coherent string of words.

He gives up when you hook your fingers in the last set of buttons, springing him free.

His cock is big — flushed a pretty pink at the head and thick. It’s a sight that you always imagined would have you uncomfortable and horrified and running for the hills. Seeing a man naked, on any night beside your wedding night? It was always warned against, always battled back with deep settled fear; women like you aren’t meant to be doing things like this in the quiet hours of the night, but it doesn’t scare you, doesn’t disgust you. Instead, it kicks something alive inside of you that’s anything but innocent. It’s far from it.

“Look at _you_ , cowboy.”

Arthur’s eyes roll shut, head dropping back to the sheets as he lets out a weak laugh. Finally he speaks. His voice is horse. “This has got t’ be a dream.”

You pull your lip between your teeth as you smile, fingers finding the bare skin of his hips as he squirms on the cot. His breath hitches as you tug at his union suit, hands moving to scale his side as he exhales long and hard.

“You look like a dream,” you mutter, “I could watch you for a while.”

Arthur gives a weak sound at that. His hands move to pull you down into a needy kiss — one that leaves his cock pressed to his belly and you don’t think twice before you’ve moved to run a tentative touch along it.

Arthur’s eyes jump open and his whole chest heaves.

_ “Sh-Shit.” _

“Good?”

He can’t even respond, just chew his lip and flare his nostrils and nod.

Your nose brushes his as you lean over him, lace of your chemise skimming the exposed skin of his hips and chest; it’s a sensory trap, luring him in at the welcoming softness. You take him gently into your hand and give one hesitant pump.

Arthur nearly gives in then and there.

You have to rush up to silence the groan that flies from his throat. You bite his lip, pulling away with it stuck between your teeth. Arthur’s eyes are rooted to the way you look at him, like he’s some revered man. 

He feels unworthy of it. Unworthy of _you._

“ _Shh_ ,” you whisper, nudging his face with your nose. You move to bite a kiss along his throat, “You want Dutch t’ hear you?”

Arthur gives a pitiful, daring laugh, then – as if to say, “ _why not”_ – a breathy rumble that shakes his chest and leaves you grinning into the skin along his shoulder. You kiss him again, amused, lips lingering by his cheek as you climb over his leg and situate yourself above him; he follows, chasing you upwards as he props himself up on his elbows. Arthur is slack-jawed, face bright in a rosy glow, eyes half-lidded as you move. 

Under his eyes, you feel small.

“Is this okay?” you whisper, leaning to set a slow pace, lips falling along his cheek.  


Arthur pants, nodding desperately at the hot touch. “Y-Yea – _Christ,_ yer gonna _kill me.”_

You snicker, settling against his thigh fully now – your chemise pools around you and you can’t help but bunch a hand into it, hiking it up over your thigh in a flash of skin; Arthur gravitates towards it, chasing the searing contact, finding under calloused fingers there’s no lace around your hipbones. No cursed bloomers. Just skin. Blue eyes anchor themselves to the expanse of skin up your hip, awe rooted there, as he realizes you’re _bare_ andflush right against his thigh.

“ _Jesus_ –”  


His head drops back against the sheets and you grin above him, thumb slipping along the head of his cock to find it slick – Arthur jolts at the sensation, chest heaving in a gasp as you quirk a brow and slip the wetness down his length, earning a low moan, mingling with a desperate laugh. He screws his eyes shut, hands moving to grasp at your thighs like a ship lost at sea.

Eagerly, you lay a hand over his and drag it upwards, under the lace, grinning happily when it settles along your ribs. His hands are warm and rough and big, settling to press you against his thigh – his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“Yer th’ prettiest damn thing I ever seen.”  


Arousal crawls up your chest, heat flaring in your face. No one has ever touched you like this. Certainly not brushed their thumb over your nipple and moved to haul your chemise off you totally when you say their name.

The outlaw surges up, pulling the nightgown from your frame as his mouth moves to latch itself to the curve of your breast — his stubble tickles, tongue moving flat against your breast as he bites a little mark there; a reminder of the night, something tangible, something secret. Blue eyes connect with yours and Arthur smiles, happy to at least have thrown you off for a moment. It’s a shift in the power balance, one that sends a hand through his hair eagerly.

You move then, hips squirming against him as you pick up the pace – it earns a low groan from Arthur. Planting a firm hand on his chest, he settles back against the cot without a fight. You’re in charge; he’s the one who needed help. 

“This is about _you_ , Arthur.”  


His eyes can’t help but shut, lashes kissing his cheeks. The idea that this is all about you _giving_ – the idea of you happily surrendering yourself to him stirs his arousal further. His hands crawls up, calloused fingers brushing the curve of your hip again, this time urging a pace out of you. You chew your lip, lids going heavy, as you move your hips in tandem with your wrist; it’s not easy, but the reaction is worth it.

“Y’ sure y’ never done this before?” he asks, words broken by pants.  


“Never,” you lean, biting a delicious little mark along his collarbone, “Though, I think I’d benefit from some extra practice, Mr. Morgan.”  


He can’t hide the desperate sound that’s pulled from him at the name.

Arthur is a mess, eyes on you and on the roof of the tent and on your core bucking against his clothed thigh. He’s trying to remember how to breathe, how to think – it’s hard when you’ve come along and robbed all worldly abilities from him. The sounds in the tent are sinful; breaths mingle in the quiet, names exchanged in eager little prayers that wind both of you higher and higher.

This is not how he anticipated his night going.

“Practice – _fuck,”_ he squirms, spurring a grin out of you, “ – makes perfect.”  


Your thumb brushes the head of his cock again, sending the outlaw gasping after the remark. He tightens his hold on your hips, dragging himself up and smothering your grin with a kiss that’s _bruising._ He bucks you forward, dragging you along his thigh, and the friction is wonderful. Your hand falters, slipping up along the ridge of the swollen head and Arthur’s breath hitches – enough that you chase the exact reaction through the same ministration.

It’s the right one.

His hands are shaking when he winds them around your back, mouth digging harsh bites into the column of your throat as you whimper – you pry at his jaw, face gripped in a tight hold; you heave a gasp, eyes darting to his swollen lips. Arthur happily lets you assert the gesture of dominance, mostly because you brush the underside of his cock with fingers slick with pre-come in that exact moment and his eyes roll right into the back of his head. 

“ _Shit_ –” he gasps, hands moving to grab at your backside as he falls back to the cot, a bit too locked in the pleasure to do much else, “Sweetpea, _please_ –”  


“Like that?” you ask quietly, mimicking the motion.  


His hips lift, arms tensing as he nods; his lip is pulled between his teeth. “Y-Yeah.”

“Arthur Morgan,” you nearly purr, falling along his hips and pressing your chest to his as you concentrate your hold on his arousal, “I think I’m awfully _lucky_ – a man like you, lettin’ me touch ‘im like this…”  


You kiss his cheek and his heart flutters. 

He moves to root his fingers in your hair. 

You give him another slick pump. Another curse.

It’s the look that does him in, though; one look, a smile, illuminated by the dying fire outside his tent – you’re a dream, chest pressed against his and hair spilled along your shoulders – he comes hard; it’s like a tsunami, washing over him so hard that he’s floating and his world is dark and his hearing is gone. He’s dead, dying, gone, _in heaven._ Arthur Morgan has died in your arms.

He’s laughing, then, eyes still screwed shut as you grin above him.

“Miss Turner,” he pulls his eyes open, “I – _This_ …”  


He’s come along your wrist. The first thing he sees is you dropping a finger to your tongue with a coy look. 

_ He’s dead. This is heaven. _

Now, he doesn’t want to sleep. 

But, you’re happily pulling yourself from him, snagging his handkerchief from the wardrobe at the end of his bed and moving to clean him up with a gentle hand. Your fingers nimbly button his union suit back up, mouth chasing the skin of his chest – and he just watches, touch fond. 

“Think you can sleep now?” you ask as you chuck the handkerchief over your shoulder. You sit up, settling on the side of the cot. You scoop up your chemise, “Did I tire you out?”  


Arthur stops you. His eyes are narrowed.

“Where you think yer goin’?”  


You blink. _Oh._

He moves, then, pulling you down beside you and winding his arms around you desperately – as if you’d run off. You can’t help but laugh, sheepishness settling across your cheeks as you chew your lip. You’re naked, pressed against him and a _bit cold,_ but the ache between your legs is the biggest problem.  


“Honestly,” you mumble sweetly, “I was going to take care of _myself,_ but –”  


Arthur pulls an eye open.

His smirk is dangerous.

“Were y’?”  


He winds you into a kiss, then, your head turned to engage over your shoulder, when his hand slips between your legs. You can’t help but lift your leg, hiking it over his hip and opening yourself up to the searing touch.

“I could take care a’ this” Arthur mutters, greedy mouth kissing your shoulder as you gasp, “Like y’ did fer me –”  


You’re soaked. His fingers slip along the velvet folds easily. You breathe his name.

“Won’t take much,” he chirps, “Look a’ you.”  


God, you wish you could shut him up. That, however, had happened earlier – and now you’re at Arthur mercy; you grip at his hips, fingers winding tightly in his union suit as he seemingly curls around you and presses sloppy kisses to the back of your neck as he works a pace along your clit; it’s dangerous and wonderful and you say his name like _plead,_ begging for _something_ you don’t even know.

Then, a crooked finger slips inside you and you jolt.

_ That’s it.  _

His thumb moves, coaxing another cry of his name before a second finger stretches you nicely – the feeling is foreign but it’s _good,_ you feel better than you have when you’ve been the one doing it, certainly. His fingers are thicker, rougher, warmer. 

“That alrigh’?”  


“Don’t you _dare_ stop.”  


Your legs are shaking.

Arthur grins. 

“Yer close,” he rumbles lowly, “C’mon, _practice makes perfect_.”

Just like your smile did him in, it’s those words that do you in – you come along his fingers _hard,_ hands wound in his union suit and gripping the edge of his cot as he smothers your sounds with a bruising kiss; it strangles your rational thinking skills and you’re stuck in a honeyed glow as the come down follows. 

Before you even realize it, Arthur is tugging the sheets up over you and pulling you close to his chest. You melt into the touch, smile permanent on your face as you bury yourself in the hold.

His beard scratches your forehead as he kisses you there.

“I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said yer gonna be th’ death a’ me,” he says slowly.  


You laugh sleepily. “Weren’t you the one who said dyin’ happy comes much later?”

A low laugh. “Yeah, well, that was before y’ got me off –”

“Go t’ sleep, Arthur,” you chirp, pinching his side, “Sooner morning comes, the sooner I’ll make you, _again_.”  


And on that note, Arthur Morgan goes _right_ to sleep.


	32. Romanticism of the old west.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Arthur making Miss Turner blush? Some sweet talking perhaps? I'm such a sucker for that man and how he speaks

Oh, Arthur Morgan.

A romantic beneath it all.

“Miss Turner,” he says softly, clearing his throat, hat wrung between two hands as he leans towards the domino game, moving to interject himself politely between you and Hosea, “Could I, uh, steal you fer a moment?”  


“Of course,” you say, breath swept from your lungs at the sight of him. Affection bubbles in lungs, nestling within the spaces between your ribs; worry blooms t the sight of his rather guarded expression, however and you ask: “Is everythin’ alright?”  


“Peachy,” he rumbles, corner of his mouth quirking.  


Hosea grins and Arthur spares him a nod. 

“Hosea.”

“Arthur,” he chirps in greeting, patting your hand as you blink between the two men, “My dear, we’ll finish this game tomorrow – it’s rather late anyways. Stay out of trouble, you two.”  


“Good night, Hosea,” you wave, watching him meander off before turning your gaze back to the outlaw who’s shifting from boot to boot beside you. When you rise from the table, Arthur’s hand moves to fall naturally along the small of your back.  


You smile, slow and suspicious, as he guides you towards his tent. “What are you up to, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur muscles his hat back onto his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Quit askin’, alrigh’? S’a surprise.”

His hand finds yours, rough fingers slipping to intertwine with your smaller ones. Arthur leads you along the outskirts of camp, lending you to eye him with a critical amount of appreciation and affection – it manifests in the squeezing of digits and lingering gazes; though palpable, you find yourself wishing it was more tangible. 

He stops short before his tent’s flaps.

“Close yer eyes.”  


“ _Arthur.”_  


_“C’mon,_ sweethear’,” he says with such earnest affection that you comply wordlessly, “It ain’t gonna bite ‘cha, I promise.”  


And so, you press your hands to your eyes and huff.

Arthur grins, moving then to press a kiss that lasts _not nearly_ long enough to your lips and spur your forward with a gentle push. You pass the threshold of his tent and he urges you to stand there as he shuffles about and moves to stand in front of you.

“Alrigh’,” he says, “Open ‘em.”  


The first thing you see is him, without his usual hat, with an honest smile on his face.

Then, you see the beautiful, pearl-inlaid, pistol and deep brown, leather holster in his hands. Your mouth pulls wide, gaze bouncing between him and the procured gifts with a look of disbelief. You just… open your mouth to babble about the beauty and craft and _how expensive,_ butnothing comes out. 

“Y’ been gettin’ real good with shootin’,” he explains, “An’ I wanted to make sure y’ had your own.”  


You’re flustered – incredibly so. The creeping prick of sheepishness and affection and appreciation and… _all of it_ paints you a shade of adoration you hadn’t previous been privy to before Arthur.

You take the pistol gingerly. 

He’s proud of himself. 

“Arthur –” a laugh, “You… This…”

“It’s worth everythin’ in th’ world t’ see you happy,” he says slowly, eyes running over your face as if he’s trying to memorize the look of sheer happiness, “Anythin’, I’ll do it – an’ I want you t’ be able t’ protect yerself.”  


“Pearl?” you ask, holding it gently, “ _Pearl?_ Arthur, this is _beautiful.”_  


_“_ S’ not nearly as beautiful as you, sweetpea.”  


You blink up at him, eyes full to the brim with affection. He mirrors you, for a moment, before moving around his cot and pulling up a second gift:

_ Flowers.  _

_“…_ I was out an’ I was thinkin’ about you, an’…”  


Lilacs and baby’s breath and wild flowers – all tied neatly with a piece of string that he offers; you take it with a gentle laugh. The idea of him stopping along the route back from Saint Denis and picking flowers for _you_ is quite an image, one that churns a warm heat in the furnace of your heart. 

The gun and the holster and the flowers are juggled in one arm as you close the gap between you both and pull him down for a kiss. You hand clutches his cheek, fingers darting across stubble, as he closes his eyes and winds his hands around your waist.  


He pulls away and you pull him back. Again and again. He blooms.

“Thank you,” you mumble finally against a proud smile on his lips, “Thank you, Arthur, so much… but, where did all this come from?”

Oh, Arthur Morgan.

The most romantic of them all.

“I am so sweet on you, Miss Turner,” he mutters as he nudges your nose with his own, “It gives me a damn toothache like y’ wouldn’t believe.”


	33. Gold bars and petticoats.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> impossiblygoodguac said: did I just put off sleeping for 6 hours last night despite having work early in the morning just to read your entire miss turner x arthur series. of course I did :) absolutely amazing!! genuinely can’t wait to read more sometime!✨

Arthur Morgan rides into camp along side Charles with two large bucks draped over the backs’ of their horses. It’s mid-day by the time they unload, skin, and clean the meat of the early morning hunt – just in time for Pearson to begin prepping dinner. 

It’s oddly quiet, however, for noon in the camp.

He’d thought nothing of the lack of a usual welcome upon arrival, however as blue eyes scan the outskirts of camp, Arthur is quickly socked with the absence of Miss Turner.

He swallows down his worry and stands, blood soaked through the front of his shirt from skinning, and approaches Dutch’s tent as he wrings his hands clean with a rag Pearson had unceremoniously chucked at him. 

“Where are th’ girls?” Arthur asks, trying not betray his poker face, as he stops front of Van der Linde himself. He wrings his hands again, this time out of bubbling anxiousness.

Dutch pulls his eyes up from his book. He leans back. “They’re due back any time now, my boy. Trelawney brought them along with him into town. Something about a tea party in a pretty little garden and plenty of folks lookin’ to be robbed blind.”

Dutch waves it off, as it it’s nothing.

Arthur hums. He nods. He looks away. 

However, he lingers.

Dutch notes the moment of contemplation hitching him to his spot.

“Miss Turner,” Dutch supplies, “Jumped at the opportunity, Arthur. Her and Hosea seem to have become fast comrades. She’s mentioned to him that she dislikes the idea of purity in her reputation. If she is going to run with us, she said, she wants to pull her weight –”  


Dutch waves his hands. 

“– So let her. Let her be inducted alongside the _wolves,_ let us rid ourselves of a _lamb.”_  


There’s something sinister in the way Dutch says it – but Arthur leaves it alone. If he’s learned anything from Dutch, it’s not to push. So, the outlaw simply nods and drops his chin.

“Right, Dutch.”  


So, he putters. Arthur wonders if this is how _you_ feel when _he’s_ out on a job – it’s a palpable mix of anxiety and fear and excitement that sits on the edge of his heartbeat. Every sound from the trail beyond the woods has his chest dowsed in a fire-bathed clench. 

Maybe he should have tried harder to protect you from this life.

Sadie Adler spares him a pitied look while he paces and Arthur wonders if it’s _really_ that apparent that he’s that worried. 

The sun’s about to set, dinner’s about to be served, and Arthur’s about to ride out on his own to find all of you when the parade rides into camp.

It’s certainly a sight to see – feathers and colorful petticoats and face-paint and _fans,_ all accompanied by the singing and laughing of Mary-Beth, Tilly, Karen, Miss Grimshaw, and yourself. Trelawney is in stitches at the head of the herd, shaking his head as the group hops from their steeds.

“– Where’d you learn that whole accent anyways?” Tilly’s asking you as she hitches her horse, “Seemed t’ have all them folks _awfully_ charmed.”  


You spur Hugo towards the post, patting his neck happily as you grin and shrug – you turn on the saddle, waving a hand and slapping your fan open. Your voice crescendos high, into something like a lacy sigh, when you coo. “What? This lil’ bit?”

More laughter. Miss Grimshaw shakes her head.

Arthur rises from his cot with an amused grin, watching the theatrics with a massive amount of amusement. Tossing his journal aside, he approaches quickly – quickly enough to glare at Kieran when the makeshift stable-master moves to offer you a hand down from Hugo.

You grin, so wide and bright, at Arthur, he can’t help but mirror it.

“Hi, you,” you croon, “Careful, I’m eighty pounds heavier than I was.”  


Arthur snortst as he slides his hands around your waist and lifts to help you down from the tall Suffolk Punch – and sure enough, _you’re right._ He grunts.

“What in th’ hell –”  


You move, hiking your skirts up.

Kieran, behind Arthur, _squeaks_ and turns on a heel.

Arthur’s eyes widen, hands moving to swat at the sudden display of indecency –

Then, you pluck a gold bar from the band of your stockings.

Karen’s eyes go big, Tilly and Mary-Beth falling in around the gathering members of the Van der Linde gang. The ladies, all done up in frills and curls, seem to go a bit ravenous at the sight.

“Where did you –”  


“ _How?!”_  


You beam. “They were in the safe. While you were all doing th’ whole singing bit, I brought that french fellow upstairs –”

“ _Oh my god_ –” Trelawney, even, is caught off by your competency.  


“It _really_ is easy to knock someone out!” you say quickly, pride surging up as you grip Arthur for balance, digging through your skirts to brandish more bars. They keep coming as you explain, “So I stuffed him in the closet after he opened the safe to _show me his riches_ and –”  


Arthur gawks, blinking at the eight gold bars in your satin-gloved hands.

The whole group falls silent at the glow in the evening sun.

“… Jesus Christ.”  


“Miss Turner,” Trelawney says, then, “I believe you might have been _born_ for this sort of work.”  


You grin.

Arthur, then, splits into a laugh so loud it catches everyone off guard. He’s bowing then, gripping his knee as you laugh along, peels of laughter high and gleeful. 

“Y’ shoved ‘em in yer skirts – ?”  


More laughter. 

You throw your hands, eyes twinkling at him. “Sorry, _my pockets were full!”_

And then come the bills. You pry the _thousands of dollar bills_ from the pockets in your petticoat and the girls holler with excitement, mimicking the same action. Arthur, then, is gob-smacked – he looks up at you all, eyes darting between the combined wealth.

“Who th’ _hell_ did y’ rob?”  


“Waylon Robbins’ personal accountant.”  


There’s a dangerous glint in your eyes as you say it. Revenge, Arthur thinks, is a wonderful thing when it’s _you_ – he’d gladly let you rob him blind. His money, his name, his heart. All of it. 

You pluck a handful of bills from the clip and a gold bar, only to pass them Arthur’s way.

“Here’s your share, Mr. Morgan,” you pat his chest, “For all your trouble.”  


He kisses you like you’re his only source of air, then, pride mingling with passion and the combined jeers around the two of you only spur him on. Arthur pries himself from you slowly, greed flaring in his mind at the idea of dragging you _far away_ from everyone’s eyes.

“Welcome t’ th’ outlaw life, Miss Turner.”


	34. Midnight riders, one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon cackled: i’m ready for the miss turner and arthur angst because i’m a sadist who lives for seeing my ships being out through pain apparently

_ “GET THE GIRL!” _

There’s a fist in your hair, dragging you from bed.

Your scream rips through the quiet, sleepy, Clemens Point night like jagged glass cuts through skin.

Thick and painful and full of fear.

Arthur Morgan is torn from his dreams by the chaos.   


The inky night blankets the stampede of the phantom horses, burning lanterns swinging in the heavy air, glow swimming in the fog like souls in the River Styx. The bellows of the masked men echoes through the camp. Their masks do nothing to hide their intentions. Instead, it brands them horsemen of some home-grown apocalypse.  


Arthur wades into the violence immediately, gunning down the nearest rider.

Across camp, you’ve been pistol whipped into silence. The blood in your mouth is drowning you, screams smothered by the hood tied tight around your throat.

“We been lookin’ fer you, sweetheart.”  


Meanwhile, Javier and Bill and Charles are emerging from their tents alongside Arthur with guns blazing and eyes wide, but it’s a futile effort. The night raid ends as quick as it begins and in its wake, there’s nothing but silence, trodden mud and one, single dead rider. 

Confusion ripples in their absence. 

Something’s not right.

Arthur’s eyes roam the tired faces of the remaining Van der Linde’s. They pull themselves from their tents with more questions than answers.

“Where’s Miss Turner?”

Enter panic; all encompassing.

You are in the thick of aforementioned panic, vision coming and going in blacked out blurs – the hood over your head is dark and the ropes are tight and you can feel the skin of your wrists and ankles bleeding raw. The taste of blood is ever-present with the heavy gallops. 

“If y’ know what’s good for you,” you rasp, “You’ll let me go –”

A chorus of laughs surrounds you. 

“I don’t think so, Miss Turner,” a voice in front of you calls out with a faux sense of sincerity, “You’re quite the woman to catch. Mr. Robbins has been _worried sick.”_

More laughter. Another rifle butt to the temple.

When you wake up, you’re upright.

In the groggy disconnect between reality and your mind, you recognize there’s a fire, somewhere, and voices. 

You can still taste blood.

You blink, world spinning in terrifying dashes of light, before finally your violent vertigo rights itself.   


You’re tied to a tree on the outskirts of a camp. You do not know where you are. Your head hurts. Your nose has stopped bleeding. Your lip is split. You blink at your knees, dashed with bruises. Your ivory nightgown is stained with crimson from your kidnapping. 

You’re mad.

You snarl.

“I’ll skin you all alive.”  


Owlish heads turn at the hellcat call, and three men rise at a single beckoned wave by a man in black at the head of the camp. They are not kind nor gentle nor careful when they gather you. They pry at your gown, wandering hands trying to get a grab at warm flesh.

You’re alive and real and _not theirs._

You smack their hands from you, battling at the assault.

They throw you to the dirt in front of the fire. You land on your knees. Your hair spills around your face and hides the bubbling anger. You feel every bit wild – every bit feral. You’ve been stolen from your bed, dragged from home. 

You’re not safe.

You’re _angry_.

“Waylon Robbins sends his warmest regards.”  


You spit at the ground at the mere mention of the name.

“Frank,” the man snaps, calling attention to the thug beside you, “Make her look at me.”  


A fist knots itself into your hair. You’re yanked, then, fingers clawing at the wrist as your head is raised and you struggle; you try to keep your face set in stone. You try to think about what Sadie Adler would do – what Arthur would _need_ you to do. 

Wild eyes rake the figure before you. He’s young – about your age – and well-dressed. His hat is pushed back, displaying the youthful sense of pride that blooms in his cheeks. He props a boot up on the log beside the fire. A hunk of fire wood sits beside you. 

In it is lodged an ax.   


“Miss Turner,” he begins again, “My name is Nicholas Dennis.”  


You snort. “Good name, it’ll look nice on a grave.”

“Clever, aren’t you?” he asks, laughing brightly, “Listen, Miss Turner, I’m gonna put this nicely. You robbed us. You robbed the kind Mr. Robbins. An’ he was gonna let th’ whole runnin’ off thing go but…”  


He leans, dropping his elbow to his knee. 

When he smiles, it glints with danger.

“You’ve gotta pretty bounty on your head, Van der Linde,” he snorts, “An’ once I let my boys have their way, we’ll turn you in, we’ll go back and pick that camp a’ yours apart. Them folks you’re runnin’ with… well, _Jenny_ told me they were bad… Sweet girl, she is. I think she might be sweet on me.”  


The mention of your sister strikes you in the heart.

The fist in your hair lets you go and you’re kicked forward. Your nails dig into the dirt and you cry out, rage boiling over. You stagger to stand, heaving.

“You _bastards_ –”  


Suddenly, there’s pistol cocked in your face.

“If yer smart,” Nicholas breathes, “You’d be a good girl an’ let th’ boys tie y’ back up –”

You’re grabbed roughly then, arms pinned.

“Or, I’ll have t’ put a bullet in y’ like I did that friend of yours back in Rhodes. Arthur Morgan, was it? Shame, he’d be better to the world dead.”  


You’re not really sure where it comes from – this horrifying, gut-wrenching anger born out of a need for survival and revenge washes over you and drowns your composure whole. The thought that this man nearly stole Arthur Morgan from this world, that he _brags_ at the idea… You wonder if this is what love is like, if murder is acceptable in the eyes of a holy matrimony unspoken. 

Til’ homicide do you part. 

You wonder, when you break for the ax, if Mary Linton ever killed for Arthur Morgan.

When you drive the ax through the head of Nicholas Dennis, and then through the chest of the thug to your right, you wonder if Arthur would be proud.

There’s a lot of blood.

You’re manic.

The gruesome sight sends the rest of Robbins’ men scattering, horrified cries drowned in your rage. Horses kick up a dust and the camp empties and you’re still swinging, fight or flight dying down as reality melts.

You watch the sunrise beside two bludgeoned bodies.

You then begin the long wander back.

You’d thought, before, that your hands had been dirty. That a robbery had put you thick in with the thieves. But, now… 

Javier had told you a story about _La LLorona_ once around the fire. You recon that with your lace chemise drenched in blood and stained hands still clinging to the ax, you must fall in with that ghostly weeping woman – though there are no tears. No weeps. No sorrow. No regret.

Cold disconnect.

The sun crawls over the horizon.

When Arthur finally finds you, you’re crossing the bridge into Rhodes like the dead walking.

You drop the ax from shaking hands at the sight of the lone outlaw.

The sight drives pain into his heart worse than the bullet shaped scar there.

**_ WAYLON ROBBINS SENDS HIS REGARDS.  _ **


	35. Midnight riders, two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon cheered: me, reading miss turner fuck those people up: hell yeah, hell yeah, hELL YEAH

“Yer gonna be alright.”  


Promises.

It’s those words and the weathered, scared hands that coax you down from the dissociated disconnect. 

Arthur Morgan isn’t a gentle man by nature – but, he can be. He’s re-learning, again after years of being on his own, how to love and to cherish and to have and to hold. With you, it’s easy.

~~He _loves_ you.~~

(You are _different_ from Mary. You don’t complain when he’s a little too rough with his hands, when he’s dirty from a job and he kisses you with mud along his cheeks. You don’t place his masculinity upon a pedestal to marvel at from afar. You take him as he is, as he always will be: rugged and rough and _wanted_ by the law and the land.)

He holds you like you’re made of porcelain in this moment, fingers winding into your waist as he helps you down from his horse. Your knees shake when you meet the ground.

You’re… in a bad way. You’re rooted in your head and not so much the reality of the somber stillness that your appearance inflicts on the camp. Your lace chemise clings to you with the blood of someone else, nose split and right eye ringed with a gnarly purple bruise. The remnants of self-defense paint your face like macabre war paint. There’s blood stains up your wrists and spray patterns in your hair. Tangled tendrils hang, obscuring the raw burns from the rope that had been tied around your throat. 

Susan Grimshaw, mother hen, flocks to your side in an instant. She can see the palpable worry written all over Arthur’s face – this is her job, it’s her job to keep the girls safe.

Her voice lacks it’s usual sternness. 

“Mary-Beth, Tilly,” she asks, “Why don’t you start a bath, please? Karen, help me get Miss Turner to her tent.”  


A bath sounds nice.

The hot water washes away a multitude of the brutality and you sit in the metal basin, scrubbing at the lifelines in your palms. They’re stained with sin.

Mary-Beth works soap through your hair and Karen sings, softly, as she works your chemise in the laundry by your tent. Outside, you can see the shapes of figures against the canvas. One is Arthur, you know, by the tall and broad stance – Hosea’s voice is heavy with concern and Dutch’s with anger. Charles lingers beside his best friend, hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Tilly says your name softly.

“You did th’ right thing, you know,” she says, “It ain’t easy, but stomachin’ it gets easier… You came back an’ you survived. That’s what matters.”  


Tilly’s words have a hollowness to them.

You’re struck with the sound of that ax driving through a skull.

_ Hollow.  _

You’re quiet for a long while, fingers dipping in and out of the water as Mary-Beth winds intricate braids in your wet hair. It’s a welcomed distraction; the sounds of voices continue as the water gets colder and finally you decide that you’re clean enough.

This feeling isn’t one you can wash away.

The flaps of your tent move.

It’s Arthur.

He’s wringing his hat, eyes pulled into a worried expression that has the girls rising and moving to give you both a moment alone. They’re nothing but a flurry of skirts in the wind, gone without a word.

The outlaw in the door-way, tall and broad and towering over you in the bath, clears his throat.

You look like a nymph – some pretty picturesque woman in a bath of opalescence. A braided crown sits high on your head and you pull your knees closer to your chest. The bath ripples around you and there’s shame in the way you sink into the water. The bruise around your eyes is ghastly.

It makes Arthur’s heart hurt.

“Wanted t’ check up on y’,” he says shakily, “Y’ had me worried sick.”  


You nod, eyes hitting your knees as you fiddling with the water.

He moves to sit on the stool Mary-Beth had been settled on previously. 

You exhale. 

He drops his hat to your bedside table, leaning forward on his knees. You move in the water, turning to look up at him. 

A warm hand slips along the curve of your jaw. His thumb grazes the bruising along the orbital socket there, all purple and yellow and sore.

It’s grounding.

“M’ sorry.”  


“Why?”  


“I shouldn’t a’ let it happen,” he says, “I should be keepin’ y’ safe.”  


“That ain’t yer job.”  


You turn, raising two cold hands to cup his own. You turn, dotting a kiss to his palm. You eyes never leave his and Arthur has to swallow down the burn it creates in the pit of his heart. Silence fleets between you both. When you finally speak, your words are shameful and quiet. 

“I killed two men, Arthur,” you whisper, “I… I drove an ax – I did a bad thing.”  


Arthur knows the feeling. The first time is always the worst. It doesn’t get better – but it’s easier to ignore. He remembers the first time he gunned a man down outside a saloon. It’s a horrible winding _stab_ that sits like lead in your gut for weeks. 

But there’s something else in your eyes. A fire.

“Y’ did what y’ had to,” he says, brushing fingers to your temple, “Y’ got away.”  


“He was th’ one who shot you.”  


Blue eyes roam your face with a sense of surprise. 

“Revenge is a fool’s game, sweetheart,” he warns, shaking his head, “It’s bad business –”

“Don’t care,” you say, “I’d do it again. I’d do it a thousand times over. He belongs in the ground, Arthur, he ain’t nothin’ but dead now. I don’t regret what I did.”  


Arthur wonders if in any other life he’d be as touched as he is now. If, in a life where he was good and honest and law-abiding, the idea of murder as a gesture of love would be as wooing as it is in this moment. The outlaw can’t help but gawk for a moment as you take his hands again. 

He leans, lips finding the corner of your mouth.

He lingers.

You sigh.  


“Y’ scared me half t’ death, y’know.”

“M’sorry.”  


Another kiss. 

“I can’t lose you.”  


It’s said like a prayer, followed by a kiss that’s gentle, achingly so. With each peck you can feel yourself being reeled back into reality and away from the pummeling beat of the night’s events. With him winding his hands in your hair and nosing at your cheek, you can forget about it all in favor for sweetness and kindness and _him,_ so solidly real and solidly _yours._

_ “You won’t.”  
_

_“_ You promise that?”  


He’s unabashed in his surrendering – Arthur bears his soul in his words.

You nod, pulling from his lips. “I promise.”

He likes the idea of you and him making promises. It seems… _natural._ Like for once, he isn’t so sad and so lonely and so old – there’s someone by his side, someone to appreciate and to support. Arthur finds himself, as he helps you from the bath and into a clean and dry chemise, wondering if you’d ever agree to a bigger promise.

You’d look lovely in white.

He winds himself into you like a vine seeking the sun as you make a disgusted face at the bruises and rope burn along your face and neck. He drops a kiss to the juncture of your neck and you squirm.

“Yer beautiful,” Arthur rumbles, “No matter what.”  


Through exhaustion and the warm steep in your bones, you finally smile.

“I’m gonna put a bullet between Waylon Robbins eyes,” Arthur says at the sight of it. The fact it had almost been stolen from him is _gut-wrenching._ It pricks his face with anger. 

“An’ I’ll be by your side when y’ do.”  


Promises. 

Promises, promises, promises.


	36. Get away, run away, a room for two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon mused: Ok but arthur + miss turner bath time bc of her lizzie borden moment

It seems like nearly all of the Van der Linde’s are walking on glass for a few days following the incident — though, you remain firm in your insistence that _you’re fine, you’re quite alright, and it’s all in the past now._

Arthur can read you like an open book.

He can see the way you tense up when Hosea asks if you would like to talk about it, or when Susan gives you a pitied look over dinner. He can see how you dodge the questions about that night with flightiness that’s uncharacteristic of you — you even steer far from the girls, which is very unlike you, and opt to do laundry by the lake in silence.

While others assume that you’ve changed, that you’re struggling with the blood on your hands following your kidnapping, Arthur knows better.

You need a break.

“Y’ wanna get outta here for a night?”

He lets you ride behind him, arms wound tight around his waist as you trot into Saint Denis feeling infinitely better than before — it’s the distance between the off-putting coddling that helps.

“Thank you,” you say to Arthur as he helps you down outside the hotel, “Fer all this.”

He hands slip along your waist and your skirts wave in the wind. He sports a proud smile.

“‘Course,” he mutters, leaning to snag a shared bag you’d both packed for the evening. Arthur hauls it up and watched you for a moment. His gaze is warm, “Y’ looked like y’ needed space.”

“M’ fine, really,” you mutter, following him into the Saint Denis establishment, “It’s… It’s horrible to say, but like I told you I don’t regret what I did. With all the fuss… everyone’s makin’ me rethink that.”

“They care about y’,” Arthur says as he tosses the coin down for a room. He watches you out of the corner of his eye, “Tha’s all. They dunno how strong you are.”

“Yeah,” you chirp, moving to eye the drink menu as Arthur leans against the bar and the tender grabs a key, “I guess s’ just overwhelming.”

Arthur takes the key with a thanks, gesturing for you to head up the winding staircase.

“Well, this ain’t meant t’ be overwhelmin’,” Arthur rumbles as he trials behind you, “If it’s any consolation, I needed t’ get away from Micah before I strangled th’ bastard in his sleep —“

“That’s awfully nice a’ you,” you muse sarcastically as you take the key from Arthur with a warm brush of fingers, “In his sleep, huh? I would jus’ stab him, plain as day.”

“Mm,” Arthur hums, “In the neck.”

You snort, unlocking the room and letting Arthur in first. “We can dream.”

“Fer now,” Arthur chirps as he takes in the master room, “We sure can.”

It’s huge. You follow him with a slack jaw, deciding that this is a very nice room with a very nice view and a very nice bed with sheets and fluffy pillows and there’s a _tub, there’s a bathroom off the bedroom._

“Does this meet yer specs, Miss High Society?”

Arthur’s beaming, proud of you standing there all slack-jawed and impressed. It’s a nice sight. He tries to memorize it.

“I call the bath first.”


	37. It will come back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon screamed: THEY HAVE A HOTEL ROOM NOW AAAAAAAAAAAHH

He doesn’t deserve this.

Self deprecation bore into the homes within his heart long ago, mutilating the walls in a sinister sort of way – with sharp teeth and hooked claws, the little beast settled deep inside his soul.

Arthur Morgan has felt hollow for so long, he forgot what it was like to have a fire stoked in that very same heart with care – the warm slow-burn of something like love drives away the beast, but in the lonesome dark, it slithers back in with a vengeance.

Mary Linton had fed that beast with coaxing hands, let it in, let it sleep in his bed, and let it make a nest. She left him in the dust with a discarded ring and a broken heart and a haphazard distrust of the more permanent parts of romance; more than anything, Mary left him with this rotting feeling that eats him whole whenever he catches his reflection in a passing mirror.

But, when _you_ smile, the clouds part.

Maybe – _just_ _maybe_ – he ain’t so bad.

If a woman like you, honest and kind and beautiful and smart, could spare him a shred of wayward affection… well, he isn’t too sure what to make of it.

“This is nice.”

You sound so far away, settled outside the tub on your knees. Arthur wishes, for the briefest of moments, that you were in the bath with him.

You lean over the lip of the basin, hand dipping into the hot water of his bath, fingers moving to brush along the curve of his bicep and scatter some suds there. Your hair is curling around your head like a halo from the steam of the tub, face glowing – you’re a picture of radiance in the dim light of the hotel room. Swathed in your nightgown, you turn to look out the french doors overlooking Saint Denis.

The moon sits high and red in the sky.

Arthur couldn’t give a damn about the world outside this room.

You’re his moon, his stars, his air and his _life,_ and as he sits there in that tub, stripped down to nothing, he realizes how he must have done _something_ good in this life to deserve you. That little beast in his heart tells him this isn’t permanent, tells him this isn’t anything more than summer sweetness.

But, you look back at him with a palpable amount of affection that his mouth tastes like warm honey.

“It is.”

You lean then, resting your cheek on your wrist and watching him as you let your fingers skim the surface of the water.

Arthur sinks lower into the water at your anchored gaze.

That coaxes a shy smile out of you.

“What?”

He looks away. “Nothin’.”

“Y’ gettin’ shy _now_? I already saw y’ get in, Arthur.”

He laughs – a little jump of his lungs that brings a smile to his face. It’s a quirk of his lips, tongue darting out to wet the amusement on his palate.

“Guess you’re right.”

You watch him for a moment longer, breath held in your lungs as you try to pin down the exact feeling that makes the air so thick. It’s written on his face, settled into the scars there, but you can’t read it.

He’s always had a good poker face.

Slowly, you move a hand across his jaw, sweeping your thumb across the stubble of his cheek.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

It’s said so softly, so sweetly. Like a prayer to higher power. His name has never sounded better, mumbled between passes of your thumb. Calloused hands can do nothing but reach for your smaller one, to anchor, to hold, to have.

He kisses your palm. He clears his throat.

“I don’t deserve y’.”

You frown.

“I am a _sad,_ lonely, old man,” he continues, “M’ one ugly sonuva bitch that’s done some ugly things –”

“Arthur,” you coo, “That ain’t true –”

“It is,” he breathes, “I’ve killed people, I’ve robbed an’ I’ve killed an’ I’ve lied an’ cheated an’… I ain’t a good man. You _deserve_ a good man.”

“You are a good man,” you rebuttal, moving to lift your head and eye him with a pained sense of finality, “You _are_ and I don’t give a damn about you bein’ a wanted man – you had to _survive.”_

 _“_ That don’t make it right. You oughta have a man who ain’t got a bounty. Who can make y’ a home and a life and –”

“Arthur.”

He heaves a sigh.

You touch his arm. “Arthur, I ain’t Mary.”

_You’re not. You don’t want him to change. You don’t want him to be something he ain’t. You left the life of high society. You chose him and the gang. You’re loyal. You care about him. You’re not Mary Linton._

Arthur swallows.

“… I know, I’m… I’m sorry, I just –”

His words die in his throat when you stand, unceremoniously yanking your chemise over your head and swinging your legs over the edge of the tub. You climb in. The bath rocks and the water rises and you could care less, really.

He’s seen you naked before – each time, though, it seems to be revered with the same sense of a religious experience. You can’t help but feel a bit worshiped; especially the way his words get stuck in his throat and he can’t help but stare.

You slip beneath the water and settled between his legs, leaning to press your back to his chest.

Arthur makes a sound – tied between surprise and amusement. Then, his hands fall along your waist under the warm water. He looms over you in the tub, his broad frame taking up a wide amount of space. He shrinks himself, again, pulling his shoulders in as you stretch your legs and let them rest against his.

Instantly, he winds down.

Like a puzzle piece, the fit is magnetic. He’s _tentative_ at first, careful not to overwhelm you, but his habit of exploring your shape creeps to the surface.

He kneads the flesh of your hip.

You’re thankful he can’t see the sting of tears in your eyes. You wish, you really do, that he’d let himself be loved. It hurts to see him spin in circles, racked with panic over being _good enough_ when he’s really more than you could ever ask for.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Arthur Morgan,” you say with such finality, “Not until I’m dead in th’ ground. Y’ gonna have t’ drag me outta this tub if y’ want me gone.”

He hums. It reverberates through your chest.

“I know that,” he finally says, ducking to dot a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, “I know.”

“You deserve to be happy, to be loved,” you mumble, “Will y’ trust me on that?”

A nod. You let your eyes slip shut.

“Good.”

Another kiss.

The water is warm. The world is quiet. Arthur’s hands are drawing lazy little patterns in your skin.

You wish you could stay like this forever.


	38. Hearty meals (for two people full of affection).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Now that they’re at the hotel, all I can imagine is Arthur taking Miss Turner out for dinner and being sappy and romantic and my heart can’t take any more 😫

“Whatcha thinkin’?” 

“The honey baked ham, maybe?” you say, leaning over the Saint Denis bar on your elbows. Arthur’s hand is resting neatly on the small of your back as you read the menu posted above the top liquor shelf, “Sounds pretty good, don’t it?” 

His boot is propped up on the foot rail at the bar, other hand resting on his thigh as he hums. Blue eyes dart over the dinner options and you blink back at him, taking a moment to admire him openly – he’s clean from a bath, dressed in a nicer black dress-shirt and a deep red vest. He’s still got his usual hat and his usual holster slung atop his head and around his hips, though; ever the gunslinger, even in moments more tender, more domestic. 

It’s endearing. You have no intent in changing it. 

“What about you, cowpoke?” His lips curl at the affectionate name. His thumb sweeps along your spine. Arthur then shrugs, moving to card the stubble along his cheek. 

“Steak, I think.” 

You smile at that, nodding. “Beats Pearson’s stew.” 

Arthur gesture with his free hand for the bartender as he laughs, leaning to duck a kiss to your temple. 

“Sure does, sweetpea. Nice end t’ th’ night, I think.” 

The bartender skirts over, quickly jotting down the order and gesturing for you both to take a seat – you decide to lead, letting Arthur loom over you as you wind through the crowded Saint Denis hotel’s bar. The dining room is busy, partly because of a big bet poker game, but mostly thanks to overflow from the bar. 

The table you both settle on is tucked away in a quieter corner – he’s fast to pull your chair out, gesturing slowly for you to sit.

It’s odd, sometimes, to see him act such a gentleman. You decide not to say a word, not to call attention to it. As much as he denies his _good soul_ , you can see it clear as day in his eyes and his actions. 

With ease, he you pushes you back in. Arthur ducks his hat off as he sits, propping it up on the steeple of his chair back. Calloused fingers move to tame the hat-hair, bleached from the sun. You sneak a smile towards him as you smooth your skirts down. 

“What?” 

You shrug coyly. “Nothin’.”

“Do I got somethin’ on my face?” he asks slowly, tilting his head. 

You don’t miss a beat. 

“Whole buncha handsome, maybe,” you chirp, “But nothin’ else.” 

He laughs, bashful and sheepish, and ducks his head as he does. 

"Y’ sure about that, Miss Turner?”

“Incredibly so, Mr. Morgan.” 

“Well,” he rumbles, blue eyes darting across your face. It’s like a haven. He’s anchored there, safe from the rough sea, “If I may say – y’ look beautiful. Y’ always do, but… I don’t say it enough.” 

“Y’ sure about that?” 

“Incredibly so.” 

His boot nudges yours under the table. You stir bashfully at the gesture, smile tight – if you let it go, you’d burst. Arthur Morgan has a way of making you feel so full of love. 

When the meal comes, you’re both already full – adoration sticks to your ribs like a hearty meal.


	39. Ma'am.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon giggled: Arthur being sassy and calling miss Turner ma'am 👀

“Arthur.”

He’s hears your voice in his dreams, groggy with comfort. 

You’re nestled in neatly to his chest, ear to his heart as you let the beating lullaby guide you to sleep. In this _bed,_ with a mattress and sheets and comforter, he had found himself longing for a sense of stability like this before he’d drifted off. Forget his damn cot back at camp. If bliss like this is worth 50 cents a night, he’ll gladly make this Saint Denis hotel his second home.

“ _Arthur.”_

He jumps awake, breath caught in his throat. Blearily, he pulls his eyes open, blinking down at you. Panic crosses his face for a moment, then he realizes you haven’t moved. You’ve still got fingers wound in his shirt, leg thrown over his hip.

You’re nearly asleep.

“Huh?”

“Y’ snoring,” you whisper, a bit concerned, “Loud.”

He drops his head back down to the pillows, huffing. 

“I’ll try m’ best t’ keep it down, _ma’am.”_

You snort.


	40. A sliver of paradise, c. 1899. [NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's full blown smut time, folks.

In the slow creep of the morning, the world is still.

It’s rather picturesque, you think, as pink and orange sun rays dance through the curtains and cast columns of light across the four poster bed. The Saint Denis hotel room is a sliver of paradise in this moment, offering quiet comfort as the city begins to stir outside the window.

Through sleep weighted eyes, you watch the early sun dance across the ornate carpet.

Inside this room, there’s no danger. No bounties, no death, no murder. Just you and Arthur Morgan and the ever present want for a future like this.

He’s not an outlaw, not a cowboy, not a Van der Linde. Inside this room, he’s simply the man who holds a piece of your heart.

Behind you, Arthur exhales. His arm, slung over your waist, tightens it’s hold for a moment as he traces the outline of your shoulder with his nose. The brush of his stubble and pass of his lips follow, lazy kisses being darted along the curve of your neck in his sleep-induced yearn for affection. Goosebumps rise at his beckoned touch.

He settles his face into the crook of your neck, hands wound into your chemise.

He sighs.

In his dreams, you’re there.

Here, under the warmth of morning sunlight and his lingering touch, there’s privacy.

It nags at the back of your mind for a moment; no interruptions, no listening ears, no chores awaiting. You and Arthur can stay in this bed all day, lay in the sunlight and treasure this moment of peace.

You want to touch him. Remind yourself he’s real.

You turn in his arms, slow and careful. In the morning light, he looks softer than usual. His eyes are shut, face buried into the pillow. The usual creases in his brow are gone, smoothed away by sleep and dreams. He is incredibly handsome like this, quiet and revered, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

You wonder how in the hell you got lucky enough to sleep in his arms.

Your fingers, moving on their own, coax him awake as you run them through his bed head. He stirs, slow like a bear pulled from winter hibernation by the warmth of spring, at the shift in his hold.

Thick lashes part and blue eyes dilate with sleep. He blinks once then twice then cracks a bleary smile at your visage and the proximity. Between you is the distance of a single breath, your nose brushing his as you lean in to steal away his grin.

It’s a greedy, sleepy, little kiss, filled to the brim with appreciation and adoration and affection. It’s slow and lazy and sweet and it very quickly blooms into something more seeking.

Arthur makes a sinful sort of sound when you pull yourself up, propping yourself up against his chest. You nip at his bottom lip and he chases you upwards, robbing your composure with expert practice.

Against the pillows, he can’t help but wind his arms around your middle and hold you close — the kiss is every bit intertwined as you both are among the sheets.

Your fingers clutch at his jaw, hands running up the plains of his chest just above his heart. Your nails graze his stubble, trace his neck, tug his hair. Every single gesture procures a light groan from the man underneath you. It’s exciting to hear the sounds he normally keeps tampered down float through the air of the room.

You quite like them.

Between the beat of a smile, you ensnare him into another kiss.

Finally, when he pulls away to catch his breath, he speaks.

It’s low and rough with sleep.

“Good morning t’ you, too.”

You grin, nose nudging his as you laugh. Your hands cradle his face, elbows tucked to his chest as he runs his fingers up your spine. You kiss him once more, encompassing all the fervor and heat of your affection, before whispering a quick:

“Good morning, Arthur.”

He swears no one has ever said his name sweeter on this Earth. No one can bring him to his knees like you can when you say it so honeyed, so melodic, so kind. Each syllable is weighted with a sort of affection that makes his heart lurch and cry and whine. He wants more of it each time. He wonders if you know how tightly you’ve got him wrapped around your thumb.

He feels pathetic. Then, he looks at you and realizes he doesn’t give a damn.

Another kiss. Your lips drag across his cheek and he kneads at your skin through your nightgown.

Blue eyes slip shut when your mouth skirts little love-bites along his throat. Each kiss leaves a cherry red mark in its wake, fingers knotting in his own as you dip lower across his torso. Arthur heaves a sleepy sigh, content with the attention.

It feels good to be touched.

For years, it was something he had nothing of — no skim of fingers across the plains of his back, no smile burdened kisses. He finds that now he is fiercely invested in the permanency with your well-placed touches; Arthur wants them all the time. He wants the anchoring feeling of you by his side. It’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever had in his lonely, rough life.

You watch his expression melt with a strawberry sweet smile.

Your fingers leave his own as you sit up, moving to drape your leg across his hip and straddle his waist.

He watches, like you’re a holy deity, as you tower over him and begin to work delicate fingers into the eyelets of his union suit. Each opened button is chased with a kiss as you lean, exploring the expanse of his chest.

Your nightgown is lily white and sheer with lace and pools around your legs like ripples in a lake.

His hands move to your thighs and calloused hand run up and down the skin beneath your nightgown.

There’s nothing rushed about this moment — no need to keep quiet or be quick or… _anything_. There’s no pressures pulling you apart, no fear, no worry. Just the quiet of the morning and the ever present comfort of being with him.

You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about it a lot recently.

Between lingering kisses and heated touches, you and Arthur had begun the slow ease into something more carnal. It was like quelling back hunger, sometimes — you both caught yourself pulling away from it, not daring to leap into the pleasure full on lest you’d drown completely in it.

Losing this more intimate part of yourself to him is almost laughable — he’s the man who’d stolen you from your family, held you for ransom, thrown you into the Dakota River… he’s an outlaw and a dangerous man to most but to you he‘s anything but. He’s honest and good and kind and nothing like the criminal he tries to be for the sake of his makeshift family.

Funny how fate works.

You love him. To the stars and back.

You’re too afraid to say it, too afraid that it will send him for the hills like a spooked deer. So, you placate the need to communicate it into things much less verbal.

Like the slow roll of your hips against his.

Arthur bites back a groan, pulling himself up to meet you halfway for a greedy kiss. His hands have found the hem of your nightgown, tugging at it as he props himself up.

“May I?”

You nod and sport a smile sweet as he pulls the white slip from your shoulders. It’s a languid movement, followed by a kiss just as smooth.

The way he looks at you then soothes any self-consciousness spurred at the sudden nakedness of your intention and your body.

Bathed in the morning sunlight, you look like an angel. Completely divine and holy and pure. You’re bare and glowing as you wind your arms around his neck and pepper eager little pecks across his face. Your chest presses against his and he chases the feeling of your skin beneath his fingers.

The proximity overwhelms him with a sticky sentimentality that burrows deep into his heart. It has a home there. _You_ have a home there.

He loves you more, he swears. He rises up to meet each moment of affection between you both with more and more and it surprises him, sometimes, that he has place for more love in his heart. With you, though, Arthur realizes anything is quite possible.

He wants this. He wants this forever. He wants you forever.

Arthur wonders what he’s done to get this lucky.

Large hands settle along your waist. He moves with purpose then, rolling to flip you and press you into the mattress and let his eyes roam over you; there’s nothing but worship in the gesture — hands dragging up your thighs as they hook around his waist.

Blue eyes roam.

You chew your lip.

Your eyes dart up and down his frame, hungry.

He goes a little slack-jawed at the gesture.

“Christ,” he breathes, “Y’ gonna be th’ death a’ me.”

He means it. Slash him open, steal his heart, and bury him in a shallow grave. At this rate, he’d thank you.

He chases his words with a kiss that’s stoked with fire. The kind of fire that warms a hearth, warms a home. The reverence that resides in each tender pass of his thumbs against your ribs is grounding and you don’t get lost in the intimacy — it’s only fitting, after all you’ve been pulled from his own ribs, seemingly created for him to have and to hold.

You both fit together like puzzle pieces.

Meant to be.

He noses your jaw. You press your head back into the pillows and swallow your arousal.

The pass of his mouth against your neck brings goosebumps and a breathy sigh along with it.

(He loves those sounds — genteel and high and quiet. They’re tentative, like you haven’t yet found your voice in moments more intimate.)

Arthur ventures forth, set on coaxing a few more delicious little sounds from your heart.

For the first time, he can take his time — he can explore and memorize and learn how you react to his touch. He can listen and string out those delightful sounds from you without the worry of others hearing. The privacy of this room is welcome, especially as his tongue flattens against a perk nipple and you _keen_.

Immediately, your hands fly to his hair.

Arthur laughs and his chest rumbles and quakes your world with warmth.

You can’t fight the smile that’s stuck on your face. Exhaling shakily, you watch through your lashes as Arthur nips the skin there once more, blue eyes connecting with your own. His tongue runs a strip along the curve of your breast. 

It’s a wonderful feeling, one that drives a hot, hollow ache straight between your legs.

When he moves to the other breast, he plants a lingering kiss to your sternum as his hand pushes your legs apart.

He knows what you need before you express it.

(He saw it in the squirming of your legs, really. He can read you well.)

“S’alright?” he asks, stubble grazing your chest.

His fingers dart up the inside of your hip, dragging lazy lines there.

You nod, nails grazing his scalp. “Wonderful, really.”

Arthur laughs again and before you can surge with pride, you’re heaving a quiet sigh; you drop your head to the pillows as Arthur gleans from his perch and world his fingers through the pleasurable heat between your legs.

The touch is welcome — it soothes the want that’s hot in your core. Arthur’s fingers glide through the wet, velvet folds with ease; it’s shameful the way you whine and squirm with the slightest of his touch.

You’re wound right around his finger. You wonder if he realizes how much power he holds, how much he controls your heart.

Arthur, blissfully ignorant to the implications of your eagerness, heavily enjoys this part.

Seeing you come undone from the simple push and pull of his calloused fingers is a sight to behold.

But, if he’s being honest, he’d like a bit more of a taste.

Ignoring his own strain against his union suit, he dips lower on the mattress. His mouth skirts your abdomen, your hip, then finally the top of your thigh.

He settles, half way off the bed, right between your legs.

From atop the pillows, you looks like a piece of art. He takes a moment to marvel, to watch how you push a hand through the tangles in your hair and rise up on your elbows.

Nervousness paints your face with a glow he aims to stifle — the pass of his fingers along the plains of your thighs makes your stomach swirl with a lovely sense of excitement.

From between your thighs, he pushes each leg apart with a gentle urgency — his face is soft with adoration as you chew your lip. You let him admire you openly with a bashful sense of tentativeness. It’s terrifying but wonderful and when he laughs in adoration, you can feel the hot of his breath.

You have to blink at the ceiling to calm yourself down.

If it was any other man, you’re not sure you’d be able to do this.

But it’s Arthur. And you love him.

(And he loves you.)

He’s painfully aware of his own shortcomings as far as composure and experience go in moments like these — there are parts to this dance that he doesn’t know. He’s learning the steps. For the first time, he feels comfortable being unsure. You’re content with anything he does, honestly. It shows.

“Y’ alright with this?” he asks, eyes darting up to you as he presses a warm kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips linger against the skin there, nose tracing the soft skin, “I can stop —“

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you speak.

“Please don’t,” you urge, feet squirming as his breath fans across your soaked core. You glance back down at him, fingers winding into the pillow above your head, “That would be cruel.”

“I agree.”

Then, his thumb sweeps the delicate bundle of nerves there and you jump.

With a hungry laugh, his mouth is on you.

You slap a hand over your face fast, only smothering a bit of the shocked whine.

The sound he makes at the taste is blissful. It brings with it a sense of pride on your end, especially when his tongue dips to get more from your folds and you jolt. Blue eyes fleet up to you, for a brief moment of connection.

You have to laugh — this… _this is new._

Hands fly to his hair, spurring him on as he chuckles and moves to press slip a finger inside you. “Good?”

He crooks it as he laps at you and your back arches.

“God!” a breathless laugh, hand smothering your mouth as you nod, “Yes, _yes_.”

This is fun. He has to smile against your core as you tug on his hair a bit more, mouth pressed fully to the mound of pleasure now — one hand moves to knead your thigh, the other dipping a finger in and out at a lovely pace.

“ _Arthur_ …”

He can’t help it when he groans against you. You whimper, a little shocked at the reverb.

He pulls from you with a sloppy grin.

His voice is rough.

“I like it when y’ say my name.”

He sweeps your breath from you with another pass of his tongue against your clit and you can’t help but whimper at the sensation. His name falls from your lips again in a high little sigh — a sound that coaxes a wolfish grin from his lips as he kneads your hip and slips to stretch you with another finger.

You gasp.

He happily chuckles.

You pull his hair.

He draws quick circles with his tongue across your clit.

“Th-This…”

“What?” he asks, eyes dark with arousal as he blinks up at you from between your thighs, “Cat got yer tongue?”

He’s in a playful mood — you can tell by the rosy shade of humor painting his voice. It’s incredibly attractive and you can’t help but chew your lip as you let out a strained laugh.

“God, Arthur just _fuck_ me.”

… It slips out.

Arthur sputters in shock.

Blue eyes widen and you immediately wonder if you’d taken it all too far.

The moment seems to be snuffed out, then, and he pulls himself from you with questions readily on his tongue. The way you collapse inward is instinctual and fueled by a sudden sense of self-loathing that comes hand in hand with the perceived rejection, though. You can’t help the way you close off to him then, worming your legs shut and pulling away to back up against the headboard.

“I — I’m sorry if that makes you think any less of me,” you offer, reminded of all those years being taught the importance of purity and abstinence, “Me wanting _that_ , I mean.”

Arthur immediately realizes his mistake.

Guilt flies across his face.

“Sweetpea—“

“M’sorry,” you immediately say again, swallowing down some sort of pained expression, “I didn’t mean to ruin th’ whole… thing — I was just…”

He surges up, tangling rough fingers in your hair.

“Y’ didn’t ruin a damn thing.”

“Arthur —“

“No,” he cuts you off, “Look at me, y’ think I’m… _not excited_ ‘bout _that_?”

He’s right. He gestures to his hips in good faith. There, a strained sign of arousal is outlined against his union suit.

You spare him a pitiful, embarrassed pout.

“I don’t want y’ t’ think y’ _have to_ , is all.”

It’s your turn to feel guilty. “Arthur, no! No, I _know_ —“

“Y’ mean th’ world t’ me,” he says slowly, “All th’ heavy pettin’ aside.”

“Same here, cowpoke.”

Arthur can’t help but shake his head, dropping a sturdy kiss to your brow. He says your name soft and sweet and drags a kiss from your lips.

“… So.”

A blink. Your mind goes a little blank from the gesture. He isn’t mad. He isn’t upset. You can see the playing of a smile on his lips.

“What?”

“You’d really have me…? In that way?”

Your shoulders drop as you whine, albeit playfully now.

“Arthur,” you say slowly, suddenly seeing how his usual self deprecation has worked its way into the air between you both, “Y’ think with how sweet am I on you, I wouldn’t?”

“Well — I… I don’t want y’ t’ think… I dunno. I ain’t in any rush.”

“Well what if I am?” you mutter, “What if I’m real sure about that?”

Christ alive, his heart is on fire.

“You’re really…? You _mean_ that?”

“Been wantin’ to for a while now. Just… camp ain’t the best place —“

Your words, though they waver, are anchored with honesty. They’re warm with conviction and it suddenly isn’t so shocking to him that you’d have him in this bed, in this hotel, right now.

“No, no it ain’t,” he mutters, voice lilting into a low croon, “T’ many folks listenin’ an’ th’ way y’ say my name is _too_ nice t’ keep quiet —“

“Shut up,” you swat at his chest as he laughs like thunder in your ear, winding his arms around your waist and pulling you close. His mouth bites a delightful little mark below your jaw as he kneads your backside, “What th’ hell am I supposed to say? _Micah’s_ name?”

Arthur pulls away, hair disheveled and mouth red and nostril flared. You have to laugh.

“Keep ‘im outta this.”

“What,” you chirp, “He ain’t fodder fer your fantasies?”

“No,” he growls, stealing another kiss, “He ain’t — he’s a rat. If ever _touches_ you…”

“I ain’t lettin’ any one else touch me like you do, Arthur,” a reassuring whisper is tossed his way as you anchor your fingers in his hair, “I promise y’ that.”

“Yea?”

“Why don’t y’ let me prove it?”

He’s dreamed of a moment like — he’d be lying to himself if he said this wasn’t a fantasy of his own. You climb over him, palm giving him a good shove to the chest and sending him back to the sheets; your fingers work quickly, dragging the union suit down over the outline of his arousal.

His manhood springs free.

Arthur swallows thickly. You spare him a coy smile.

He’s sweating. Very suddenly, he feels like he has too much clothing on.

You shimmy down the mattress, nudging apart his legs and propping yourself up on your elbows. You’re draped across his thighs, arms settled across his hips as you reach — his whole body jerks when you secure a light hold on his cock.

He isn’t ready for the next part. He knows he isn’t. But, he can’t bring himself to look away.

Your tongue runs a long stripe up the underside of his length and Arthur smothers a desperate sound with his hand so suddenly. You pull away with a smile, readjusting to hold him and drop another dash of your tongue along the head. He’s painfully hard now, sex drive revved up and chest heaving as he wets his lips and blinks up at the ceiling.

This is new. You’ve never done this before.

You rather like it.

You move to take him into your mouth, spurring a gentle whisper of your name as he sits up and props himself up onto his elbows. His stomach is taut with pleasure, hands shaking a bit as he reaches to touch your cheek. You hum around him. He shudders.

“ _Christ_ —“

“Okay?”

You try a sloppy bob.

He can’t even respond, just drop his head back and groan. When he blinks back down at you, his hair is hanging in his eyes. Arthur’s cheeks are dusted a rosy color.

You smile. He lets out a strained laugh.

“Y’ gonna kill me.”

“Y’ said that already.”

Your tongue runs flat along the underside of his swollen head and his hips buck.

He goes slack, then, letting his arms collapse underneath him as he screws his eyes shut. Arthur’s hands move to knot themselves in the sheets and you can’t help but beam with pride as the colossal outlaw begins to come undone, piece by piece.

“M’ not — not gonna last if…”

“If I keep doin’ this?” another sloppy pass of your lips, another pleading whimper. 

“Christ,” Arthur heaves, “Just let me _fuck_ y’, sweetheart.”

You rise up from between his legs, smile devilish.

“Th’ tables have turned.”

“I don’t give a fuck about th’ tables.”

He’s a bit hazy-brained, rolling to trap you against his body and the sheets as he kicks off the rest of his union suit. Arthur’s mouth is latched to your collar bone, other hand tugging your hair gently to give him a nice angle. You make a happy sound, hands dragging him up into a biting kiss.

You can feel his cock against your thigh.

You roll your hips.

Arthur makes a tortured sound, bracing himself up as his other hand rocks your waist down.

The friction of him against your skin is delicious.

“Y’ sure y’ want this?” he asks, lips raw and eyes wild.

His hand moves through the space between your body heat and slips between your legs once more. You whine against his mouth, nodding to pull away and rut your hips down against his palm.

“Sure am, cowboy,” you chirp, noting the way his lips curl and his eyes fleet shut. 

“I oughta hurry up an’ marry y’.”

He sits up, settling back on his knees as you chase his hands with your own. Arthur kisses your palm quickly, his own hand going to spread your thighs apart as his other grips his cock.

This feels like a dream.

“Tell me if y’ want t’ stop.”

He watches your face as he runs the head of his cock along your folds, trying to calm himself down — the feeling is a lot to take, especially with the way you lift your hips to feel more of the sensation.

Arthur, in a moment of confidence, flicks the head of his cock along your clit.

You gasp and your nails dig into his hips. The moment leaves little half moons in his skin.

He laughs.

And then, he sinks in.

It’s slow and hot and tight and you make a sound of surprise at the feeling. It’s much different from his fingers, much _bigger,_ but not at all unpleasant like all those horrible anecdotes made this very moment out to be like. There’s no blood, no pain, no hellish clash of thunder.

Just Arthur trying to remember how to breathe and the lovely sensation of feeling filled.

He swears he dies a little when you begin to inch yourself up and down on the mattress, blinking up at him as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

Arthur runs his hand along his jaw, frozen as he watches.

You’re properly fucking yourself with him.

You moan, soft and sweet, and begin to move with a little bit more trevor. He can’t help but keep his hands to himself for a moment, watching hungrily as you pull your slick core up and down his length.

You take him all the way and let out a happy sound.

“Y’ okay?”

“Better than okay,” you say, head dropping back, “ _God, Arthur,_ move, please —“

He leans, hand braced beside your head, and slowly bucks his hips up to rut into yours. The timing is perfect.

You immediately moan, eyes squeezing shut and breath being rocked from your chest when he enters you fully. It’s a wonderful feeling and Arthur seems to share the same sentiment. Your hands fly to the plains of his abdomen, legs hooked around his waist, and he can’t help but let out a shaky sigh.

“ _Christ_.”

“Faster,” you say quietly, “Just a little.

“Like this?”

The direction is needed — his word has gone honeyed, brain slow to catch up the words he’s hearing. He begins to pick up the pace. His hands settle on the creases of your hips, using the leverage to buck again and again. You’re nodding at the new pace, words melting in your throat as you brace your hands on the headboard. Your breasts bounce, every connection of his hips to yours spurring wonderful sounds from your lips.

His hand, big and warm, moves to cup your cheek.

“Yer so damn beautiful.”

You chase him upwards, dragging him to the sheets for a sloppy kiss that pushes and pulls with the drive of his cock into your core. He tries to catch his breath, only to have you catch his bottom lip between your teeth. It’s like static between you, electrifying a daring sort of air.

Arthur makes a low growl of a sound.

“Harder?” he asks, lips tied to yours, “Y’ want more, sweetheart?”

You swallow as you nod, fingers digging into his shoulder as he collapses around you. He’s big and warm and broad — his mouth moves to attack lovebites along your throat, one hand kneading at your breast as the force of his thrusts picks up in the best way. It’s good, _very_ good, and suddenly you can feel the creep of pleasure winding in your core.

“Fuck,” you curse, both hands winding around his shoulders as you move up the bed with each thrust, “Arthur —“

He ensnares you in a kiss that robs your composure.

Christ, he’s going to kill you.

You’re both tangled in the sheets now, tangled in one another as the lewd sounds bounce between you both. From the thrusts to his name to your name to curses and pleads, the privacy of this room is a god-send — and Arthur doesn’t even feel a bit of shame when he starts to say your name over and over as you drag your nails up his back.

“I’m —“

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching your back and jolting at the sudden blinding pleasure that comes with the change in angle. You grapple with his face, surprise drawing your lips apart as your eyes roll back, “Shit, _Arthur —“_

_“_ Like that?”

_ “Right there —“ _

He can feel the way you tighten up around him, his own orgasm creeping in closer and closer and closer — it’s not until you writhe and quiver right on his cock, hands pushing into the sheets as your back arches and you _cry_ his name in a weak sob that he follows so shamelessly, his cock slipping from you and spilling a mess along your stomach.

Your orgasm is blinding, taking your hearing for a moment as you collapse back onto the mattress and sigh. For a while, all you can really do is lay there – the wash of the peak bathing you in a stupefied sense of adoration for the man draped over you in bed.

You’re speechless and you’re sweating, hair sticking to your neck as you lay among the sheets.  


Arthur’s the first to start laughing.

He’s _proud_ of himself. You can _see_ it. 

His laugh is a warm, comforting boom that sit in your heart like a summer thundershower. It’s riddled with softness and affection as he raises his head and lifts himself from you. His hair is stuck to his forehead, cheeks red and eyes half-lidded with a post sex glow.

You, upon seeing his disheveled but content look, follow suit and descend into your own high peel of laughter. 

“Y’ alright?”  


“Peachy, Arthur,” you offer, stretching with a smile as Arthur rolls off of you, “Y’ pretty good at that, huh?”

He sputters. “Am I?”

“I’d say so,” you muse, lazily carding your fingers though his hair, “Though, I don’t really have much evidence t’ base it on –”  


“Ha ha,” Arthur chirps, swatting at your thigh, “Yer a _minx.”_  


“Th’ real question remains: do we _have_ to go back t’ camp?”  


He wishes the answer was no, that he could sweep you away to a cabin up North and you could both live the rest of your days there. No Pinkertons, No Dutch, No O’Driscolls. Just you and him and a picturesque sliver of paradise.

Someday. 

“M’ afraid so. Fer now,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “Let’s stay in bed a lil’ longer.”  


In the slow creep of the morning, the world is awake and you and Arthur are in love.


	41. Rough ride.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> latina-ish said: HOPE — thank you for blessing us with such wonderful prose (and allowing us to live vicariously through Ms Turner). That last chapter?? *chef’s kiss*

“Y’ alright there?”

You can _hear_ the smirk in his goddamn voice.

Arthur leans against the post by the laundry tent, arms crossed as he watches you work your usual chore albeit a bit slower than usual. Your posture lacks it’s usual strength, and Arthur can tell that the position you’re sitting in is less than comfortable.

Part of him feels a little bad.

The other part thinks it’s pretty damn funny.

You huff and blow a bundle of fly-away hairs out of your face. 

“Y’ done starin’?” you cheep, “Some of us have t’ _earn_ our keep, Mr. Morgan.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he croons, kicking off the post, “Just thought I’d check in after this morning’s _ride_ –”

You chuck a wet sock – it’s Uncle’s – at his head before he can go any further with that sentence, laughing all the while.

“ _You!_ Are _terrible!”_

 _“I_ am _concerned,_ s’all – I saw y’ makin’ faces when y’ settled in –”

“I am _sore –”_

 _“_ Why are you sore, Missus Turner?” 

Both you and Arthur clamp your mouths shut, turning to see Jack standing by the edge of the tent. He’s got a bundle of flowers in his hand, face split into a big smile at the sight of you both – unbeknownst to the joke, thankfully, he wanders in close and plops himself down next to you. 

Arthur masks a laugh with a cough. 

“Your Auntie had a rough ride this mornin’, Jackie.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s not fun.”

“No, not quite,” you run your fingers through Jack’s hair and blink back at Arthur as you try to come up with a good enough lie, “Your Uncle Arthur decided to take the long way home today and Hugo wanted none of it.”

“That’s not very good.”

“No, it isn’t –”

“I believe you were _quite_ interested in th’ scenic route –”

“Well,” Jack huffs, “I hope you feel better, Missus Turner. I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

“Thank you, Jack, that’s sweet of you.”

As he scampers away, it seems, you just can’t outlive this joke of Arthur’s. The outlaw is bent over, smothering his laughter with his hand.

“You’re terrible,” you whisper between laughter, standing and moving towards him with a smile, “He think’s I’m hurt – like a _lame_ _horse_.”

“Christ,” Arthur snorts, “He’s gonna run an’ tell ‘is Mama –”

“Oh m’ _lord.”_

“M’ sorry,” Arthur chokes, “I shouldn’t be laughin’, it – _ha.”_

 _“Oh,_ chalk it up, cowboy –” you wave your finger, “M’ gonna remember this for next time.”

Arthur’s brows raise and you mirror the action.

“Oh?”

“Count that as a _threat,_ pretty boy.”


	42. Imitation as a game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: it’s come to the point where i open tumblr and search ur url first to see if there’s any tasty new arthur content and then go about my usual blogging, you’ve got me WHIPPED

He’s shucking off his dress shirt when you snag the hat from atop his head.

From his spot at the bottom of his cot, he watches with an amused look before dropping the straps of his suspenders around his thighs and working at the buttons of his work jeans. The trunk of his clothes is open, union suit already laid out, when you clear your throat and stand from your spot on the cot.

“ _Shoaaaaaar,”_ you rumble, hopping down, “ _Name’s Arthur –”_

Christ almighty, he swears if he doesn’t marry you someone should just shoot him dead. His face splits into a grin that looks like sunshine – you reckon it probably tastes like it, too – and when he laughs?

Boy, you’re _smitten._ That ain’t nothin’ new.

 _“Y’ makin’ fun_ a’ me, Miss Turner?”

“ _Nooo,”_ you continue to drawl, voice going a bit raspy as you drop your thumbs to your imaginary holster; you try, then, to imitate his walk – all big and heavy and imaginary spurs tinkering, “Why, _lil’ ol’ me?”_

“Yer bein’ ridiculous.”

“I am no man t’ be trifled with, y’ hear?” you rouse, rounding the edge of the bed, “M’ a _bad man,_ don’t tell no one I save kittens from trees!”

Arthur shakes his head, waving for you to continue. “C’mon, then. Get all th’ sillies out, I ain’t havin’ y’ keep me up again –”

“ _Again?”_ you drop the facade, “You was feedin’ into it, Arthur!”

Arthur grins, moving to turn his back and drop trow – he scoops up his union suit as he speaks. “I was doin’ nothin’ of th’ sort.”

You snatch his gambler’s hat from your own head and give his backside a well aimed swat.

“Ow!”

“How’s _that_ for sillies?”

Arthur can hardly retort – his words are broken apart by breathless laughter. He rubs his backside, stepping into his union suit and not bothering to button it up as he snatches his hat back. “This ain’t a _weapon,_ y’know.”

You chase it, happily falling into his arms. 

“Yea?”

Arthur hums, dropping it back onto your head as you blink up at him.

“Yea.”

“Y’ sure do look awfully _dangerous_ in it –”

“My god,” he snorts, “You’re in a _mood_ tonight, sweetpea.”

“Sure am, cowboy,” you move to drop a peck to his cheek, lips lingering there, “What if I said I might need y’ t’ do somethin’ about it?”

Then, he drops his voice _real low_ and imitates your poor impression of himself.

“ _Suuuuuuuuure.”_

Both of your laughs echo through camp.


	43. Arthur "Gator Snack" Morgan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Miss Turner always offers to wash Arthur's hair. Her hands are so small and gentle, she could kill him with them and he wouldn't mind.

“ _What the hell happened to you?”_

He looks absolutely pitiful.

It’s – I mean, it’s _hilarious._ He’s standing in the doorway to his tent, arms spread out to the side and clothing _dripping_ in warm, swampy mud that smells _vaguely_ like human shit. His hat sags with the weight of the mess and as he shifts you can hear the squelch of his mud-filled boots. You slap a hand over your mouth.

“Pearson said,” Arthur clears his throat, “that alligator eggs are tasty.”

Your jaw drops.

“So,” he chirps, closing his eyes as more mud drips off him, “I said, _sure, why don’t I help that sonuva bitch get some gator eggs.”_

 _“_ Oh my god –”

“Oh,” he raises a finger, “Oh, it gets worse, because while he lures them momma gators off so I can snatch th’ shit-fer-piss eggs, _neither of us considered where daddy gator was!”_

His voice splinters into a near laugh – and you decide, wordlessly, that you’re going to start a bath. He throws his hat across the tent in irritation as you scurry out to grab the big tin from beside Susan’s tent and make quick work on filling up with basin after basin. The water is cold, but it’s so _damn_ humid and he’s so _damn_ dirty, you’re sure Arthur won’t mind.

His dress shirt hits the floor of his tent with a pitiful _slop_ and you bite back a laugh.

“God, Arthur,” you gawk, “This – you’re _a mess.”_

 _“_ It’s in my _damn_ pants.”

You just let him strip, watching the self-pity roll off him in waves as he sinks into the water and starts scrubbing the mud off himself. You’re quick to lend him a bar of soap from your tent – he doesn’t even turn his nose up at the lavender smell, like you’re sure he usually would. 

He’s in the tub for a minute flat and the water is already dirty.

He’s about to ditch the bath, figuring this is good enough, when you come back into the room with a fresh basin of water.

“You ain’t even blonde anymore,” you chirp, gathering the soap and wetting it in the basin before speaking, “Lemme get your hair.”

This part right here is probably the best part of his damn day.

He groans as your fingers work the soap through the short tufts there, touch bordering on sturdy but gentle as you massage his scalp and laugh a little at the reaction. Arthur’s eyes lull shut, voice humming a bit, as you snicker and tug on his hair a little. 

“Lean your head back.”

You rinse his hair clean of soap.

“Alright, gator snack,” you cheep, “ _Up_ , this water is disgusting.”

“Can I get a kiss?” he asks slowly, “Th’ ladies at th’ hotels usually gimme a kiss.”

You laugh loudly at that, swatting at his arm as he grins proudly at the roused reaction. You obey the request easily, bending to pepper two sturdy kisses along his cheeks as he chases your lips. 

“Ah, ah,” you swat, “Get dressed. Y’ can have more kisses after dinner. Hopefully th’ eggs are as good as Pearson said.”

“I swear –”


End file.
